Born in Pain: The 25th Hunger Games
by Elim9
Summary: "The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain."
1. Moments of Transition

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Welcome, readers both new and old, to my latest SYOT. Submissions are still open; information and the tribute form are on my profile.

This story follows my other two – _Doomed to Die _and _Edge of Chaos _– but should still make perfect sense if you haven't read them. If you have, expect some familiar faces, as well as some new ones.

So, without further adieu, the beginning of the story...

* * *

**Born in Pain  
The 25th Hunger Games**

* * *

__This year, as a reminder to the rebels that the horrors of war show no partiality or distinction, the names of all eligible tributes will be placed in a single reaping bowl, and three tributes will be selected. There will be no volunteers.__

* * *

**Prologue, Part I  
****Moments of Transition**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Why three, Florum?"

Helius looked up, surprised, wondering how long President Hyde had been standing there. Helius grinned. "Something wrong with three, Mr. President?"

Hyde shook his head. "Not 'wrong,' exactly. Just a bit … anticlimactic. This is the first Quarter Quell. We could double the number of tributes. Triple it, if that's what you want. But, instead, you asked for three from each district. Why?"

Helius shrugged. "I've always liked the number three. It's built into our lives, you know. Any life – at any moment – can be divided into three parts: the past, the present, and the future. What was, what is, and what will be. It's the same way with stories. Any good story has three parts. The beginning of the story. The middle of the story." He smiled a little. "And the end of the story."

Hyde nodded his understanding. "You mean to go through with it, then – your resignation?"

Helius nodded. "I think it's time."

"The people won't be happy."

"Good."

"Pardon?"

"It's good to leave while that's still the case. Much better than leaving the way my predecessor left."

Hyde nodded. "You've got a point, I suppose."

"I usually do. Besides, twenty-five years is quite enough for anyone – and twenty-one of them as Head Gamemaker. It's been a good run. I've enjoyed it. But … it's time. Time to pass the reins to someone younger. Someone more ambitious."

"The same thought had occurred to me."

Helius nodded. "So you mean to go through with it, too."

"Not right away. I'll wait a few weeks after the Games. After the festivities have died down. But, yes. It's time for someone else to take the reins. Twenty-five years since the rebellion. Twenty-five years of peace. I'd say I've earned my retirement."

Helius poured them each a glass of wine. "I'll drink to that."

And they did.

* * *

"_The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation."_


	2. District One: Unfair

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a couple of "housekeeping" notes.

Firstly, since several people have asked, yes, there is a blog. The link to it is on my profile. Tributes will be posted on the blog as they're introduced in-story. (I do this to avoid split-second judgments of the tributes based on a picture and a few words on a blog, something I'm more than guilty of myself.)

Second, make sure to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings. Twelve extra tributes means more potential allies, so let me know if you see a good match. Submitters of Careers, this applies to you, as well. We've got only one or two who could remotely be considered proper Careers, so there's no rule that says tributes from 1, 2, and 4 _must_ end up in an alliance together.

Lastly, thank you to _torystory93_, _Rosemarie Benson_, and _Frank.2.0 _for Elaine, Henri, and Daedem, respectively.

* * *

**District One Reaping  
****Unfair**

* * *

**Scarlet LaFleur, 18  
****Victor of the 23****rd**** Hunger Games**

Now she was glad she hadn't waited.

Scarlet glanced over at Jade and Stellar, smirking knowingly. _Wait a few years, _they'd said. _You're young and impatient_, they'd said. _Wouldn't winning a Quarter Quell be better? _And, once or twice, she'd wondered if maybe they had been right. Maybe a Quarter Quell would have been more exciting. But now she was glad she hadn't listened.

Because then she may have lost her chance entirely.

It was all up to chance this year. No volunteers. Jade and Stellar were seated next to each other, holding hands, trying to make the best of it. But Scarlet knew they were disappointed. And the students they had selected this year – Autumn and Kane – would be even more upset in the likely event that they weren't chosen. They were both eighteen. Both had trained most of their lives for this. In a matter of moments, their chance could be gone. And they had no say in the matter.

Scarlet drummed her fingers impatiently. She didn't like looking at the nervous faces in the crowd – nervous for the first time in years. The reaping in District One was usually just a formality. The tributes were selected by Jade and Stellar weeks before the reaping. Everyone already knew who would volunteer.

But not this year. This year, the decision rested with Aurora DeLaine, their escort, who had an odd smile on her face as she approached the single reaping bowl. Maybe she was excited, knowing that, this year, it finally mattered which name she drew out of the bowl. And, Scarlet had to admit, there was something exciting, something tantalizing, about the uncertainty of it all, especially since it wasn't _her_ chance that was at stake.

Aurora reached into the bowl and drew a name. "Molly Saunders!"

Immediately, the sound of sobbing filled the square, draining the excitement Scarlet had felt only a moment before. The sobbing was coming from the eighteen-year-old section, where the crowd had parted around a girl in a green tunic, dark purple skirt, and a green head scarf. Scarlet watched in disbelief as the girl – no younger than her – collapsed on the ground, weeping like a child as the Peacekeepers hauled her to her feet and dragged her to the stage.

Scarlet glanced over at her fellow mentors. Jade and Stellar watched, blank-faced, trying to appear unmoved by the display. Felix glanced away, uncomfortable, as the girl continued to weep, falling to her knees as soon as the Peacekeepers released her. Her long black hair was now a mess, her dark brown eyes red with tears by the time she dared to look up, pleading, begging for someone to take her place.

If only they could.

Somewhere in the crowd, Scarlet knew, were the two students Jade and Stellar had chosen. Two teenagers who would have given anything to be in this girl's place. But there were only two chances left…

"Daedem Luthra!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a tall, sturdy boy in a dark red suit. He was dark-skinned and dark-haired, his crooked nose and square jawline giving him a much more serious look than his district partner. But just as Scarlet had decided that he was a much better contender, the boy began shouting. Screaming that it wasn't fair, that he hadn't done anything. The Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him to the stage, but he was still protesting – his deep brown eyes wide with alarm – demanding to know what he had done to deserve this. "What did _I_ do?" he yelled as the Peacekeepers deposited him onstage next to the girl.

The boy scrambled to his feet immediately, but had more sense than to fight back. So he simply stood there, arms crossed, glaring at each of the victors in turn before turning back to face the crowd as Aurora drew one more name. "Elaine Willis!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a white lace dress. But no sooner had they cleared a path to the stage than the girl sprinted in the opposite direction, through the crowd, past the rest of her age group. She had almost made it through the twelve-year-old section before a younger Peacekeeper caught her in his arms, carrying her to the stage. Scarlet thought for a moment that he whispered something in her ear before setting her next to the two older teenagers. The girl nodded a little, tears in her dark blue eyes, her wavy brown hair mussed from the struggle.

No one seemed to know what to do next. Usually there were handshakes. Cheering. Shouts of victory uttered before the tributes had even entered the arena, bets taken on which of them would come home with the victor's crown.

But not this year. This year, the Peacekeepers led the tributes away without another word, leaving the crowd to disperse quietly. Once offstage, the four victors gathered together in a circle.

Jade spoke first, shaking his head. "We've spoiled them. They've forgotten how to handle a real reaping."

Scarlet nodded. Since Jade's victory, nearly all of District One's tributes had been volunteers. And since the founding of Jade and Stellar's Career academy, they had been better trained, well-prepared, and, in recent years, hand-picked by the Florens to volunteer for the Games. Before today, these three had probably never even considered the possibility that they might end up in the Games. They had been safe.

Until now.

"Not too late to change your mind, Felix," Stellar teased.

Felix shook his head. "Oh, no. You three go ahead. I've had my fill."

Jade clapped him on the back. "Fair enough. Take good care of Jasper and Thea."

Felix nodded and made his way through the crowd to Jade and Stellar's children, who greeted him with warm cries of "Uncle Felix!" Scarlet smiled a little. In an odd way, they _were_ all family – Jade and Stellar, little Jasper and Thea, "Uncle" Felix … and her. The wayward daughter? The crazy cousin?

"So, Scarlet, you get first pick – any preference?"

Jade's question yanked her back to the moment. Down to business. That was the unofficial family rule: newer mentors got to pick their tributes first. It was supposed to make it easier, but, last year, she had ended up working closely with Jade, anyway. "I'll take the boy."

Jade nodded. "I thought you might. He's got a temper."

Scarlet smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not if you can control it. You did a fair job of controlling your own, or else you wouldn't be here; you'll do fine. Stellar?"

"I'll take the younger girl."

Jade nodded. "Which leaves me with the crying one. Thanks."

Stellar shrugged. "Well, of the three of us, you _are_ the only one who's mentored a non-trained tribute."

"Seventeen years ago."

"More than either of us can say. You're the most experienced – best equipped to handle a tribute who won't stop crying."

"Flatterer."

"Flirt."

They kissed.

Scarlet rolled her eyes, but there was a part of her that envied them. Their relationship, their normal lives, their children. And Felix – he and his wife, Jasmine, were expecting their first child. They had moved on.

But she hadn't. She couldn't. Because she had won the Hunger Games … and it still wasn't enough. Felix – he was happy with what he had done. Fulfilled. Jade and Stellar had the academy to keep them busy, and two young children. Scarlet didn't have the patience to be an instructor; after a few days and several battered would-be-tributes, she and Jade had agreed that teaching at the academy simply wasn't a good fit for her. Stellar had assured her that she would find something else.

But she still hadn't. What was she _supposed _to do? She had won the Hunger Games in record time – four days, the shortest Games on record after Vester's. She had killed eight tributes, a total only Ivy and Mortimer had surpassed. So why did she still feel second-best? Why couldn't she do what Felix had done – hang up his sword, be happy with what he had, and leave the Games behind? After the thrill of the Games, a normal life – even the life that Jade and Stellar had – seemed dull in comparison.

What was she supposed to do now?

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14**

This wasn't what she'd had in mind.

Elaine buried her face in her mother's shirt. Only a few days ago, she had been complaining that they never let her _do_ anything. While her brother Terence was in training to be a Peacekeeper, she was expected to be a proper lady. To say _please_ and _thank you_ and _excuse me_, to keep up with the latest fashions, to always look neat and tidy and fancy, like the daughter of a Head Peacekeeper should.

She'd told them she didn't want to spend the rest of her life in District One. She wanted to explore. She wanted an adventure. She wanted to _do_ something with her life.

This wasn't what she'd meant.

She'd never even thought about the Games. Not really. She wasn't big enough or strong enough to train, and her parents would never have let her, anyway – not even as a precaution, just in case she was reaped. There was always someone who would volunteer. The reaping itself was a bit of a joke.

Until now.

"Elaine, I—" Terrence started, but Elaine shot him a dirty look. She hadn't really expected to be able to get away. Some part of her had known better. But she hadn't thought _he_ would be the one to catch her.

He had only been doing his job, of course. They had both reacted out of instinct. Her instincts had told her to run. His had told him to follow orders. She knew she shouldn't be upset. If he hadn't caught her, one of the others would have. Maybe even her father. But, still, she couldn't shake the feeling that maybe – _maybe _– she could have made it. Maybe she could have gotten away.

But then what? Where would she have gone? She couldn't have run forever. Eventually, they would have caught her. Maybe it was better to just go quietly.

Elaine held her mother even tighter. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to leave all of this behind. All the _please_s and _thank you_s she'd been taught wouldn't help her in the arena. Now that she had gotten what she had thought she'd wanted – a little excitement – she would give anything to have her life back. To live in peace with her family and friends.

But, in order to do that, she would have to make it back from the Games. She would have to fight. She would have to kill. And, now that it came to it, she wasn't sure she could. But she didn't have a choice anymore.

What was she supposed to do now?

* * *

**Molly "Henri" Saunders, 18**

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

Henri and Lucy held each other close. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not in District One. Henri hated the Career system as much as she hated everything about the Games, but at least she had always been safe. She'd never had to worry about being reaped. So she had been free to hate the Games, safe in the knowledge that she would never have anything to do with them.

Until now.

"I can't do it," she whispered, holding her best friend even tighter. "I can't be one of them." Even the thought of it made her sick – the thought of killing, of taking a life. She had spent her whole life hating the Careers. Hating the victors. Hating the Games and everyone in them. How could she become one of them now?

"Yes, you can," Lucy whispered back. "You have to. You have to at least _try_. I don't know what I would do if…" She trailed off. "If I could trade places with you, I—"

"I know," Henri nodded. Lucy had trained a little – more for fun than for anything else. She had never really planned on volunteering, had never really been good enough. It was a hobby. But it would still have given her a better chance.

But if Lucy had been able to take her place, there would have been no need for it. Because that would mean that someone else could, too. Someone who _wanted_ to volunteer. Someone who _wanted_ to go into the Games. Someone who _wanted _to kill.

Henri had never imagined she would find herself _wishing_ people could volunteer.

"Promise me you'll try," Lucy pleaded. "That you won't just give up. You have to _try _to come home."

Henri nodded. "I promise." And she meant it. Because, somehow, thinking about the Careers, _I can't_ had become _I won't._ Maybe she _could_ kill. Maybe she _could_ become a monster. But she wouldn't. She would try to win, but not like them. Not by killing. She would find another way.

Henri squeezed her eyes shut tight. Part of her knew she was grasping at straws, but what else was she supposed to do? She wasn't a killer. She wasn't a fighter. But she was going into the Games, anyway – where fighting and killing were what kept tributes alive a little longer.

What was she supposed to do now?

* * *

**Daedem Luthra, 18**

Part of him hadn't expected Sansa to come.

Daedem watched his sister awkwardly. They had barely spoken since their mother's death. They had never been very close, and, in the last year, they had simply gone their separate ways. Sansa had moved in with her boyfriend, and Daedem lived alone. Maybe it wasn't an ideal situation, but it had suited them well.

Until now.

"You made quite a scene at the reaping," Sansa said at last, as if she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Daedem scoffed. He was probably going to his death, and that was all she could think of? That he might have embarrassed himself by making a scene? "We all did," he pointed out. "At least I didn't try to run away."

"Or burst into tears," Sansa added with a hint of a smile. "So the audience will probably like you better than those two."

Daedem nodded. That was his sister – already thinking about what the audience would want to see. He hadn't thought about it that way. He'd simply panicked. Reacted. He hadn't cared what the audience would think.

And he still didn't. Chances were, he didn't have much time left. Why should he waste it worrying about what some idiots in the Capitol thought of him? If they couldn't wrap their minds around the idea that someone might actually be _upset_ about the possibility of dying, that was their problem – not his.

He had enough problems of his own.

Soon, Sansa was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts. No one else came. Not that he was expecting anyone. There were people he knew, of course – people around school, people around the district. But no one who would really notice that he was missing. No one who would care if he never came back.

But _he_ would care. Maybe he didn't have anyone else to fight for, but why did that matter? In the end, no one in the arena was fighting for their friends, for their family, for their district. They were fighting for their lives. And so would he.

Daedem leaned back in his chair, mind reeling at the thought. Fighting. Killing. He'd never imagined that he could be the one sitting here. Children in the other districts – they knew there was a chance. But he had never even considered the idea. The thought of fighting, of dying, of killing – that had never even crossed his mind.

What was he supposed to do now?

* * *

"_I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life _were _fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually _deserve_ them? So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe."_


	3. District Two: Justified

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Since several people have mentioned it ... Yes, I'm aware that, in canon, Peacekeepers can't have children. I'm choosing to ignore that. I also chose to ignore the fact that, in canon, Finnick is the youngest Victor, so Hazel shouldn't have won at twelve. I also chose not to include Woof as a District Eight victor, which should probably have happened by now. I also chose to make Mags' Games the 8th, even though that puts her at 82, not 80, during the 75th Games. Finally, most blatantly, I chose to change the Quarter Quell twist.

As you've probably noticed, I'm not going to be shy about bending canon if it serves the story. The fact that Elaine's father is a Peacekeeper isn't the first instance, and it won't be the last. Just figured I should put that out there as fair warning.

Anyway, on to District Two. Thank you to _blurry cornrow_, _SomeDays_, and _Munamana_ for Simone, Dewan, and Adrian, respectively.

* * *

**District Two Reaping  
****Justified**

* * *

**Talitha Cadence, 28  
****Victor of the 12****th**** Hunger Games**

Vester was holding up surprisingly well.

Talitha slipped a hand into her mentor's, giving a gentle squeeze and forcing a smile, for his sake. The smile he returned was weary, heavy, and just as forced. But at least he was here. And he was sober.

Talitha hadn't actually seen him drunk since Mortimer's victory four years ago, but she suspected he drank during the Games, while she and Mortimer were away. Not that she blamed him; the Games sometimes made _her_ want to drink herself into a stupor, as well. But she had a job to do. And, this year, so did he.

The Quell announcement had come only two days ago, giving the three of them little time to take in the news. Vester had muttered something about them wanting him there for "one last moment in the spotlight" and resigned himself to one last year of mentoring, something he had sworn off four years ago, leaving Talitha and Mortimer as the regular mentors. And Talitha had never begrudged him that. He'd served as a mentor for twenty years – eleven of them alone. He'd earned his retirement.

But the Capitol, apparently, just couldn't leave him in peace.

He was still taking the news better than Mortimer, however. District Two's first Career victor was glaring at the cameras, furious that his hand-picked volunteers would never get their chance. "This is what we get for being too strong," he had reasoned when he'd first heard the news. "Careers have won three out of the last four Games – and the other was a Career ally for a while. So they're trying to take it out on us."

Talitha hadn't said anything. But that didn't strike her as the right explanation. After all, next year would be back to normal – and the year after that, and the year after that. If the Capitol was really upset with the Careers' winning streak, they could outlaw the academies, or make the no-volunteering rule a permanent change.

No, this wasn't a punishment. It was a reminder. A reminder that even here – even in the Career districts – no one was ever truly safe.

Because that was the only good thing about the Career system, in the end. The only bright side to the fact that hundreds of the district's children were now being trained to brutally murder other teenagers. It meant that the rest of them were safe. That anyone who didn't want to risk their lives in the Games could simply sit back and let someone else take their place.

Was it worth the price? Worth brainwashing hundreds of children into believing that killing was simply another sport, another trophy to win? Was it worth turning them into monsters, so that others could live in peace?

She knew Vester's answer: no. He'd made that quite clear when Mortimer had asked him to serve as an instructor at the academy. Several of Vester's fellow war veterans had joined Mortimer, eager to share their skills, but Vester held firm. Under no circumstances would he condone training children to kill and to die merely for sport and entertainment.

But, despite his disapproval – and despite her silence – the Career movement had only grown. Hundreds of teenagers were eager to volunteer. The competition for this year's spots, she knew, had been fierce.

And, ultimately, futile.

Mortimer was still glaring as their escort, Boris Dexeter, approached the reaping bowl. All of his hard work this past year – all for nothing, unless the odds were, in fact, in his favor…

"Dewan Rutledge!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black dress pants. He was about average in height and build, with a few muscles and a surprising amount of confidence as he put on his best smile and ran up to the stage, his ice blue eyes giving off an impression of eagerness. Whether he was actually excited or simply copying District Two's tributes in recent years, Talitha wasn't sure.

She glanced over at Mortimer, hoping for some hint as to whether or not this was one of his students, but his expression was unreadable. The boy's face, however, seemed to be an open book as he turned his confident smile towards the audience, waiting for the names of his district partners.

"Adrian Mors!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dark blue worker's uniform. He was tall, brown-haired, and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic build, but a snort from Mortimer's direction told her this wasn't one of his students. The boy, as well, seemed to be almost holding back a chuckle as he took the stage, his bright hazel eyes fixed defiantly on Mortimer as he took his place next to the other boy.

But when he turned towards the audience, the hint of a smile faded, as if the reality of the situation had just dawned on him. Emotions flickered on his face – anger, fear, shock – before confidence and determination settled in once more, and he joined the other boy in watching the escort, waiting for the third name.

"Simone Lorance!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a girl in a grey, sleeveless dress, black tights, and black shoes. For a moment, she simply stood there, shocked. Motionless. Staring, wide-eyed, muttering something under her breath. Talitha squeezed Vester's hand a little tighter. She knew the feeling. She'd been there herself – terrified, in denial, hoping that if she stood still long enough, they would call some other name. Any other name.

But, at last, the girl began to move, stepping slowly out of her section and towards the stage. Trying to look calm. Trying to appear as confident as her district partners. She was about as short as the younger boy, pale and slender, with long, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. The younger boy smiled at her, holding out his hand. The girl hesitated for a moment, but then shook it. Then the two boys shook hands, and, lastly, the two eighteen-year-olds.

Talitha squeezed Vester's hand as the three tributes were led away. Once the crowd was gone, she turned to Mortimer. "What was that all about? Did you know the boy?"

Mortimer shrugged. "Both of the boys, actually. They were at the academy – but not very long."

"What happened?"

"They decided they wanted to live," Vester muttered.

Mortimer decided to ignore that. "Dewan was pretty good when he applied himself – but he just didn't want to, after a while. It was a fad – a popular one – and he was never really that interested."

Talitha nodded. "And Adrian…"

Mortimer shrugged. "Flunked out."

That finally warranted a chuckle from Vester. "What was the matter? Got queasy when he realized that he could actually be killing a _person_ instead of fighting your dummies?"

Mortimer shook his head. "Couldn't take orders. Training requires discipline – and he didn't have any. It was my first year, and we simply didn't have the resources to deal with him when there were other willing candidates who _were _willing to do what they were told."

Vester nodded. "I suppose he wouldn't want to work with you, then."

Mortimer shook his head. "Probably not. I'll take Dewan."

"I'll take the girl, then," Vester offered.

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow, but Talitha understood. Even if he'd been booted out, Adrian had wanted to train for the Games. And Vester didn't want any part of that. "I'll take Adrian, then," she nodded as Mortimer headed off. She turned to Vester. "Are you all right?"

Vester nodded weakly. "I just … never thought I'd be doing this again."

Talitha nodded. "It's just one more. Then you're done with the Games – for good."

Vester sighed. "One more. One last moment in the spotlight. One last bow. But you know better than that, Talitha. We all do." He shook his head.

"No one is ever done with the Games."

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15**

He'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Dewan tried not to look at his parents. It had been his father's suggestion that he start training, and Dewan had always suspected that he had been disappointed when he'd decided to quit. But it just hadn't been for him. Sure, he could throw a knife at a target about as well as the others, but, after a while, it had stopped being fun. It had stopped being exciting. He just didn't have the drive that some of the others had. He didn't want to kill.

And, if he was being honest, he didn't want to die, either.

The kids at the training center didn't really seem to understand that – the idea that they might die. They were all so confident, so sure that they would win. Even when two of them were chosen to volunteer, it didn't seem to occur to them that at least _one_ of them would die. At least _one_ of them would have to, in order for the other to come home. He had never understood how they could just ignore that.

But now he would have to pretend to be one of them.

Dewan took a deep breath. He could do it. He'd spent enough time among the Careers. He could imitate their attitude, their confidence – even if he didn't really feel it. But that would only get him so far. Attitude wasn't everything. Sooner or later, he had to have the skills to back it up.

But did he?

Dewan shook the thought from his head. It wasn't as if anyone else this year would have training, either. No volunteers meant the other tributes from One, Two, and Four would probably be just like him – maybe a little training, but nowhere near the usual amount. That would give him an advantage.

Probably.

Maybe.

Dewan ruffled his little brother's hair, putting on his best confident smile. "Take care of them until I'm back, all right, Jason?"

_Until I'm back_. He was surprised by how easy it was to say the words. To play the part. Jason nodded along, hearing what he wanted to hear: that his brother would be back. Even their mother and father were nodding, trying to smile, trying to look like they believed it.

Maybe that would be enough.

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18**

She'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Simone shook her head as her father left. She'd never even thought about the Games – not recently, at least. Ever since Mortimer's victory four years ago, volunteers were a certainty at the reaping. She'd always been safe. Safe to live her own life without having to worry about the Games.

So she hadn't trained. Hadn't even considered it, really. She had no intention of volunteering – no intention of risking her life – so why train? Why waste her life on something she wasn't really interested in?

Then again, she had never been quite sure what she _was_ interested in. Not like Leila. Her sister seemed to have her entire life mapped out for her. Leila shared – or at least pretended to share – their mother's interest in politics. When her parents had split, Leila had spent more and more time with their mother, even moving in with her when she became the mayor. Simone, on the other hand, was left with their father. The leftovers who didn't fit into the shiny world of prestige and politics.

Simone looked up as the door opened. Leila entered, followed by their mother. "This is why it's important that we have Careers," their mother fussed. "Any other year, there would have been someone to take your place."

Simone cringed. Supporting the newly founded Career Academy was part of what had finally landed her mother the position of mayor. And she had a point. Any other year, someone would have stepped in and saved Simone's life before she had a chance to realize that it was in danger.

But not this year.

Simone shook her head. Just her luck. They couldn't have called her name last year, or the year before – when it wouldn't have mattered. It just _had_ to be this year. Her last year.

After several moments of awkward silence, Leila and her mother left. Simone did nothing to stop them. She'd barely seen the two of them in the last couple years; they wouldn't notice that she was gone. Her father would move on. He'd already lost his wife and Leila. Why should he care if she left, too? Simone stared at the closed door as it finally hit her.

What did she have to come back to?

* * *

**Adrian Mors, 18**

He'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Adrian gave the wall another kick. He wasn't supposed to be here. He'd never wanted to be here – not really. Even when he'd applied to the training academy, it hadn't been because he _wanted_ to kill. He'd been looking for something better to do than spend his days working, trying to get by. The Games had seemed like a way out. Win, and all your troubles were gone. Lose and … well, all your troubles were gone, anyway.

But they'd said no. Tossed him out after only a few days. For a long time, he'd resented them for that. Envied the ones who were given an opportunity to succeed while he spent his days hauling rocks for building and his nights gambling with Lucky Jack. But he'd gotten over it. In a way, they'd stopped him from throwing his life away. Not that his life was amazing, but it was something. And it was all he had.

But now he was here, anyway. Without any training. With only his strength, only his own experience, only his own desire to survive.

Maybe that would be enough.

Maybe he didn't have much to come back to. His mother would survive. His friends would move on. They could learn to live without him.

Maybe he wasn't leaving much, but that also meant something else: he didn't have anything to lose. No friendships that would fall apart if he came back changed. No family or loved ones to distract him, to occupy his thoughts during the Games. He could focus on saving himself.

Adrian clenched his fists, trying to force his mind back a few years. To channel some of the drive he'd felt then. To win – not because he wanted to kill, not because he wanted to make his mother proud, but because he wanted something better for himself. Because he wanted to come home. Because he wanted to survive.

All his life, he'd wanted to be someone. To be more than the kid on the street. More than the young worker, more than the gambler who occasionally ended up on the wrong side of the law. There was a time when he'd wanted to make something of himself. And now that he had the chance, one thing was certain.

Win or lose, they would never forget him.

* * *

"_There's only one truth about war: People die … We can't deny it. We can only live with it and hope the reasons for doing it are justified."_


	4. District Three: Remains

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **My apologies for the late update. I recently joined a 24-author collaboration and will need to get into the swing of balancing that story and this one. (There's a link to the collaboration, called _Fallen Leaves_, on my profile if you're interested.) Thank you for your patience.

Also, thank you to _ImmyRose_, _Xymena Falling_, and _IronManRidingaNimbus_ for Alasdair, Eigen, and Natasha, respectively.

* * *

**District Three Reaping  
****Remains**

* * *

**Miriam Valence, 24  
****Victor of the 15****th**** Hunger Games**

"Miriam Valence!"

Miriam's head snapped up. She had been lost in thought, but hearing her name called out snapped her back to the moment. For a second, she was fourteen again, hearing her own name at the reaping. Terrified. Trying to run. Being caught and dragged to the stage.

Miriam shook her head, gripping the arms of her chair and forcing a smile. That wasn't why they had read her name. They were reading the 'list' of victors. A list that held only one name.

Miriam swallowed hard. That wasn't the list they should be reading. She'd always thought it would be better to read a list of the tributes who _hadn't_ come home. She was here – they didn't need a reminder that she had survived. But the others, it seemed, were forgotten too quickly. There were those who remembered, of course. Their families. Their friends. But, to most of the district, they were just two more names. And then two more. And more.

But she remembered. She remembered each of their names. She repeated them every night before she went to sleep. A reminder. A reminder of why she kept trying. Why she was determined that, one day, her name wouldn't be the only one the mayor would read off at the reaping.

Because a part of them was still with her. Mayberry, her own mentor, had passed that on to her. "When we leave a place," she said, "part of it goes with us, and part of us remains." There was a part of her tributes that would always remain here, in District Three.

Just like there was a part of her that would always remain in the arena. And there was a part of those catacombs that she had brought home with her.

That was the way the Games worked. No one ever fully left the arena. And every victor carried a part of the arena with them. She had realized years ago that a victor had two choices: they either accepted that simple fact, or it drove them mad.

And, so far, she hadn't gone mad.

Quite the reverse, in fact. She had taken her victory and turned it into an opportunity. No longer having to scrape and scrounge to provide for herself, Miriam had been able to focus on what she had always wanted. She had gone back to school – the same school she had dropped out of at the age of ten in order to work in the factories. She had completed the education she had neglected for so many years. Now she was in her final year of studies, almost ready to become a teacher herself.

Because that was the sort of hero District Three needed, in the end. Winning the Games wasn't enough – not here. The victors in One – and Mortimer in Two – had dedicated themselves to training new tributes. But she was focused on a different sort of training. A training dedicated to life.

The mayor finished, and District Three's escort, Valery Creston, stepped up to the microphone. No show. No fuss. She snatched the first slip her fingers found, unfolded the paper, and read the name. "Natasha Kovaćić!"

Kovaćić. She knew the name. The whole district did. One of the largest family names outside the Capitol itself. Perhaps _the_ largest. There were a few murmurs from the crowd. It had been a few years since a Kovaćić name was chosen, but they all remembered. In twenty-four years, the Kovaćić family had lost fourteen tributes. She had mentored five of them. Elena, Artem, Vitali, Lidya, Katya. And, of course, there was her own district partner, Andrei Kovaćić.

Response among the Kovaćić family was mixed. Some were proud of their family's long legacy in the Games. In fact, a few of them – including Andrei – had been volunteers, eager to prove themselves stronger and heartier than their predecessors. The more reasonable ones – in Miriam's opinion – detested the Games as much as anyone else. A few even suspected a conspiracy to wipe out the Kovaćić family.

Which was probably an overreaction. If one excluded the four volunteers and only included the tributes who had been reaped, the Kovaćić children accounted for ten of the district's forty-eight tributes. Roughly one-fifth. No one had ever done a count, but Miriam wouldn't have been surprised if the Kovaćić family – immediate and extended – made up a fifth of the district's population.

It was just a matter of numbers.

But the numbers had done nothing to protect the girl who now emerged from the sixteen-year-old section, wearing dark jeans and a green hooded sweater. She held her head high, but Miriam could tell immediately that she wasn't from one of the train-for-the-Games branches of the family. The girl looked more like a model than a tribute: fiery red hair, large chestnut eyes, and curves like Miriam had once dreamed of having.

Once.

But that was a long time ago. That was the factory girl who dreamed of having a well-fed, healthy body rather than the skinny, meager form that had somehow taken her through the Games. She was no longer that little girl. She no longer felt the same petty envy when she saw girls like Natasha.

But she couldn't deny that a figure like that would help the girl win sponsors.

The girl was doing her best to smile, and even managed to answer a few of Valery's questions. Yes, _that_ Kovaćić family. No, none of the previous tributes had been her brothers or sisters, but a few had been cousins. The rest were distant relatives she hadn't really known. Of course she was excited to carry on her family's legacy.

Nonsense if ever Miriam had heard it – this girl wasn't eager for anything of the sort – but the Capitol would eat it up.

At last, Valery tore herself away from the tribute who would surely be her favorite and made her way back to the reaping bowl. Maybe hoping for a relative of the girl's to spice things up a bit. It had happened once – back in the Fifth Games. A Kovaćić brother and sister had been reaped together. Miriam leaned forward, watching Valery intently, hoping it wouldn't happen again.

"Eigen Vallant!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted for a rather burly boy in a plain white shirt and brown trousers. He was taller than most of the others in his section, with a mop of dark brown hair that almost hid the way his ears stuck out, and a nose that was just a little too big for his face.

Unlike Natasha, he seemed to see no point in pretending to be excited or even pleasant. He was scowling as he made his way to the stage, his pale blue eyes glaring. Glaring at Valery, at Natasha, even at Miriam. Miriam tried to hide a smile. His attitude wouldn't win him any points with the Capitol audience, but it was a bit refreshing to see someone who didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he was actually _upset_ about being sent into a fight to the death.

Valery, however, looked quite disappointed as she reached into the bowl one more time. "Alasdair Bryant!"

Valery's frown only grew as the twelve-year-old section parted around a boy in a light blue button-down shirt and dark blue pants. He was about average height, with fairly long, light reddish-brown hair.

For a moment, the boy looked like he might faint. He certainly didn't look like he would make it to the stage on his own. But, at last, someone gave him a nudge, and he started walking, hesitantly, towards the stage. His light brown eyes darted skittishly back and forth before finally coming to rest on Miriam. Miriam gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and that seemed to boost his courage enough to allow him to make it up the stairs, finally standing beside his two district partners.

Valery smiled, but the smile was clearly directed at Natasha rather than her two less promising district partners. Valery had already decided on the best candidate for the victorship. Miriam wasn't so sure. How many people, ten years ago, would have chosen the skinny factory girl over the eighteen-year-old volunteer who had joined up with the Careers? And yet here she was, and Andrei was dead.

Miriam shook the thought from her head. Natasha wasn't Andrei. She hadn't asked for this. None of these three had. It was obvious as they reluctantly shook hands: none of them wanted to be here. And yet here they were. And soon they would be leaving the district – maybe forever.

But a part of them would always remain.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12**

They wouldn't go away.

Alasdair closed his eyes, trying to block the images. His class three years ago, on a tour of a factory. The explosion. The lights, the sounds. The screams. He remembered running. Panting. Terrified and desperate. Realizing only after he was safe that the others were still inside. Still trapped. That he had abandoned them.

Of course, there wasn't anything he could have done. A nine-year-old boy couldn't have saved them, anyway. But that didn't change the fact that he hadn't tried. He hadn't even thought about them. He had panicked, thinking for a moment that he could outrun even death.

But now death had finally caught up with him, too.

As it caught up with everyone in the end. He was no different. Just one more tribute from District Three. One more death in the Hunger Games. Tiny. Insignificant.

He had no chance of winning, of course. He had already accepted that, the moment his name was called. Maybe even before. He had considered the possibility, of course – he was even half-expecting the name to be his. He was going to die. There was nothing he could do about it. And that was all right.

But the waiting wasn't.

Because in the waiting, the silence, their faces returned. So he had learned to keep himself busy. To find other things – other people – to focus his time and energy on, because he couldn't stand being alone with his thoughts.

Now he was more alone than ever.

But not for long. Maybe he couldn't help himself, but he could find someone. Someone else, someone worth helping. Someone to make his last days worth it, to give his last moments purpose. He was going to die, but his death didn't have to be meaningless. He could help someone else come home, give them a chance to live the full, meaningful life he would never have.

Alasdair took a deep breath. This time, he wouldn't panic. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't waste his last days in a futile effort to save himself. This time, he wouldn't leave anyone behind.

This time, he would get it right.

* * *

**Eigen Vallant, 14**

They wouldn't go away.

Eigen crossed his arms over his chest, still glaring as his parents sat awkwardly beside him. Why were they still here? There was nothing they could do. Why didn't they just leave?

"We love you, Eigen," his mother said quietly, scooting a little closer to him. Eigen didn't budge. Maybe that was still true; maybe it wasn't. Wasn't going to help him much either way. Love wasn't something that helped in the arena. It was something that got people killed.

"Is there anything you want – for a district token?" his father asked, trying to break the awkwardness.

Eigen considered for a moment, thinking of his own personal belongings. At least, they were 'his' in the sense that they belonged to him now, not the unfortunate classmates who had owned them before he, Sev, and Null had taken them. Money. Trinkets. Gadgets. But he wasn't attached to any of them for their own sake. He had never been sentimental. And none of them would help him in the arena.

Besides, he wanted them to be waiting for him when he got back.

Eigen shook his head. "No. I don't need anything."

And he never had. He and his gang had never had much use for gadgets or fancy weapons. His own fists had served him just fine for years, and they would serve him just as well in the arena. He would have to make do without Sev and Null, but he could find others. They had never been more than means to an end, anyway. They were replaceable.

And they, too, would be waiting when he returned. Returned with all the money and power he could ever want. But he would have no more need of them. Or anyone.

What would that be like?

Eigen was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when his parents left. He shook his head. Good riddance. He wouldn't need them, either, if he came home a victor.

No. Not if. When. He wouldn't let it end like this. He wouldn't die in some cheap arena, killed by some other pathetic little tribute. He wouldn't let them kill him, so that left only one option:

He would be the one to kill them.

* * *

**Natasha Kovaćić, 16**

They wouldn't go away.

Natasha watched as, one after another, they paraded through the room. Aunts, uncles, cousins, distant relatives she barely knew, cousins so many times removed she'd never heard their names, let alone met them. All here to wish her well. All hoping she would make the family proud.

And she would try, of course. But not for them. To them, she was just one more tribute who happened to share their last name. One more chance for the family to make their mark – not just as a runner-up, of which they had more than their share, but as a victor. Most of them didn't know her – not well, at least. Most of them wouldn't notice if she never came home. She certainly wouldn't be the first.

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief as the last of them finally left. Maybe she should be grateful that so many people at least pretended to care, but all she felt was overwhelmed. Trying to focus on surviving would be hard enough. She didn't want to carry the weight of her family's legacy with her into the arena.

Natasha closed her eyes. One by one, she whispered their names – or as many as she knew – trying to let go of each of them. Each name she breathed lifted a small weight from her shoulders. Finally, she was left with only one name: her own. Natasha.

Just Natasha.

She shook her head. She wasn't even sure who that was sometimes. Who _she_ was. The Games had always cast a shadow over her family. Over her life. Over her older brother, Anton, who had taken his own life when she was little rather than face the reaping. Over her parents – her father, a supporter of the Games, and her mother, who shared most of the district's fear of them – who had split soon after. Over her younger brother Luka, finally old enough for the reaping himself.

And now her. Headed into the Games. Into a Quarter Quell. Maybe going to her death.

Natasha clenched her fists. No. She wasn't going to die. Not like this – not as just another Kovaćić tribute. No, she would live. Not for them. Not for the family. Not for their honor or a chance to redeem their name. But for herself. For Natasha.

Just Natasha.

* * *

"_I believe that when we leave a place, part of it goes with us and part of us remains … Long after we are gone, our voices will linger in these walls for as long as this place remains. But I will admit that the part of me that is going will very much miss the part of you that is staying."_


	5. District Four: In-Between

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _LokiThisIsMadness_, _sunlight comes creeping in_, and _Jakey121 _for Calissa, Kinley, and Barclay, respectively.

* * *

**District Four Reaping  
****In-Between**

* * *

**Misha Brimmer, 20  
****Victor of the 22****nd**** Hunger Games**

He wouldn't go back.

Misha glanced frantically from camera to camera. They were waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for him to return to the Capitol. That was the reason for the Quell – he knew it. Three tributes meant three mentors. Which meant he would have to go back.

But he wouldn't.

They couldn't make him.

Misha drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Mags reached over and placed a hand gently on his. Trying to calm him. Trying to be kind. Reassuring. Naomi took the other. More for appearance, he knew, than anything else. They had to look like a team. District Four's mentors, proud and strong for the crowd.

If only they knew.

"Just one year," Mags had told him. Next year, it would be back to her and Naomi. Or her and a new victor. Not him. He would never have to do this again.

Or so she said.

And she was right about that, at least: If he went back now, he would never have to mentor again. They would kill him first. Someone in the Capitol. Maybe one of the other victors. It didn't matter who it was; the Capitol wasn't safe.

He would never be safe again.

District Four's escort, Ignacio Alvarez, took his place by the microphone. Misha shook his head. A pointless exercise – pretending that it mattered which name he drew. Everyone knew the reapings were rigged. Well, anyone with any sense. Which, of course, explained why no one noticed. Idiots, all of them. Complacent idiots.

Especially here. And in One and Two. Districts where, for years, that terrible reaping bowl hadn't mattered one bit. But now it was back with a vengeance to claim three lives instead of two.

Maybe it was better this way. Better for it to at least appear random – even if it wasn't. Certainly better than the lie he had been told: that life as a victor was worth volunteering for. Worth risking his life for. Worth almost dying for.

Worth killing for.

Worth poisoning his allies, leaving them, paralyzed and helpless, at the mouth of the cornucopia. Bait, for whoever had been picking them off one by one. Worth killing the boy from Twelve, who had thought his strategy was so clever. Worth driving a knife through his allies' hearts as they lay there, powerless to resist.

The quickest finale in Hunger Games history.

Which was why they had to kill him. Why they were looking for any chance. Any chance to draw him back to the Capitol.

They could kill him here, as well, of course. At any moment. Nowhere was safe, even though he rarely left his house. But the Capitol would be better. A larger audience. A grander stage. Yes, that had to be what they were planning: some sort of public death.

But they wouldn't get it. They couldn't make him go.

Ignacio reached into the bowl and drew a name. "Calissa Hart!"

_Rigged. _Rigged, rigged, rigged. Calissa was one of Naomi's students; even Misha knew that. Quickly, he followed Naomi's gaze to the eighteen-year-old section, where the crowd parted around a girl in a dark blue dress and a leather jacket. She was staring, shocked. She had trained, yes, but Misha knew she hadn't planned on volunteering this year. Not really.

But now she had no choice.

After a moment, another girl leaned over and whispered something in Calissa's ear. The girl laughed, quickly putting on a smile. A mask. The same mask that District Four tributes had worn for years. She stepped quickly into the aisle, pausing briefly to give a kiss to a boy as she passed. Misha rolled his eyes. Kisses should have been saved for the goodbyes, but at least she knew how to put on a show.

She certainly looked the part. She was tall and strong – not overly muscular, but lean and hardy. Her hair was something between auburn and dark blonde, depending on the light, and hung in waves down past her shoulders. Her eyes were light blue and, to his relief, free of tears as she quickly took the stage and even gave the escort a hug. Ignacio, surprised but clearly pleased by her apparent enthusiasm, grinned as Calissa gave the three mentors a nod and then turned to face the audience.

"That's the spirit!" Ignacio laughed. "And our second lucky tribute is … Kinley Arnoult!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a willowy girl in a knee-length white dress and flats. For a long time, she simply stood there, different emotions vying for control of her expression. Disbelief. Terror. Desperation. Misha's hands gripped the arms of his chair. Was she thinking about running? Trying to hide? Pointless. All pointless. They would catch her. They caught everyone, eventually.

Even him.

But, at last, the girl began to walk shakily towards the stage, her face growing paler with every second, her light blue eyes barely holding back tears. At last, as she took her place next to Calissa, she forced an uneasy smile onto her face. She was about as tall as her district partner, but slimmer and with a few more curves. Her long, blonde hair hung loose around her face, hiding a bit of her fear. But not enough. She still looked terribly vulnerable.

But they were all vulnerable – even Calissa, who looked so strong and confident. She just didn't know it yet.

"Barclay Mattison!"

_Definitely rigged._

Not because the name was familiar – it wasn't – but because, once again, the name belonged to an eighteen-year-old. The crowd parted around a boy in a bright blue shirt and grey shorts. But, even as the crowd moved away, the boy drew two of the other boys back in for a hug, smiling sadly as he held them close for a moment. After a moment, he let go, gave a quick nod, and stepped out into the aisle, pausing for a moment to squeeze a girl's hand on the way up to the stage.

He certainly looked impressive: tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled. He had jet black hair, dark eyebrows, and a rather large nose. But there was something else. Something about his bearing. Or maybe his smile.

Or maybe just the fact that, when asked to shake hands, he reached for Kinley's first.

Details. Why did people never notice the details?

Misha shook his head as the tributes were led away. Now he just had to slip away. Make it back to his house. To safety. Well, _relative_ safety. Better than being herded off to the train. Better than the Capitol.

But Naomi caught his hand first. "Misha, we decided that since it's your first time mentoring—"

"—only time mentoring," Mags amended reassuringly.

"Fine," Naomi agreed. "In any case, we thought it would be fair to give you first choice."

Misha shook his head. "I'm not going."

Naomi sighed. "Well, in that case, I'll take Calissa."

"Student of yours?" Mags asked.

Naomi nodded. "Not the one I would have picked, but better than Teary Girl and Huggy Boy. Which one do you want, Mags?"

"I'll take Kinley, but I'll probably end up working with both of them because Misha—"

Misha didn't hear how that sentence ended. They were distracted. He saw his chance and he took it, racing towards Victors' Village. He could do it. All he had to do was get home. He could barricade the doors. Hide in the tunnels he'd patiently dug over the last three years. He could hold out for a while.

Until the Games were over.

But he never got the chance. The Peacekeepers came out of nowhere. One of them forced something over his nose and mouth. "Careful with him," another said. "Don't want a dead victor on our hands. Just get him on the train."

The train. No. No, he wouldn't let them. Misha flailed blindly, but he could feel his senses dulling. Some sort of anesthetic. He had to fight it.

He had to…

* * *

**Calissa Hart, 18**

_You have to smile._

Calissa shook her head. That was what Carina had whispered at the reaping. It was so stupid. Smile as you go to what might be your death. Smile as you stand onstage with two other people who want to kill you. Smile, smile, smile.

But she _had_ smiled. Because that was what the district expected. Especially from someone who had trained. And most of them didn't know any better. Most of them would assume – or at least entertain the possibility – that she would have volunteered, anyway, if she could have.

Maybe she could fool them. Pass her initial hesitance off as surprise that her name had actually been called, like she'd wanted. And if she could fool the other tributes – and maybe even the Capitol – then she would have a better chance.

But she couldn't fool Killian. As soon as her boyfriend entered the room, she could practically feel the sympathy in his gaze as he threw his arms around her. Sympathy that she wouldn't want from anyone else. But he knew. Knew why she had been training. Knew that she had no desire to kill, but simply wanted to be ready, to be prepared when death decided to strike again.

The first time, she hadn't been prepared. She had been in training to be a nurse, proud as could be that she would be saving lives. She'd only had a few months of training, but she had been alone that day. That day they brought him in – Dylan. They had found him washed up on the beach.

Part of her knew she should have waited. Waited for help. Called someone with more experience. But she had panicked. Time was critical, after all. She had tried to save him herself, the way she had seen other doctors and nurses save patients who had drowned.

But it had all gone wrong. She had never been sure exactly what she had done wrong – only that, by the time the others got there, he was dead. And she hadn't been ready. Hadn't been ready for that defeat. Hadn't been ready to face death.

So she had begun training. So that, the next time death looked her in the face, she would be prepared. She had never meant to volunteer for the Games. But now here she was, anyway.

And she was ready.

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18**

_You have a chance._

Kinley buried her face in her hands. That was what she had tried to tell herself at the reaping: that she had a chance. That none of the others would have any training, either, so she had as good of a chance as anyone else.

But that "equal chance" was still one out of thirty six.

Kinley looked up as the others came in and sat down beside her. Felicity, Mariah, Jaqueline, Carolene. All trying to look optimistic. Confident. Certain their friend would be coming back.

She wished she felt as certain as they looked.

Felicity wrapped an arm around Kinley's shoulders. "You can do this. You've probably got more training than most of the others."

That was probably true. The group of them had been to the center every now and then. But none of them had ever taken it that seriously. They'd never paid for any of the trainers to work with them; they had simply gone and tried to figure it out on their own. None of them had ever planned on volunteering – and Felicity and Carolene were both nineteen now, too old to volunteer, anyway. It had just been something to do. Something fun. Something new and exciting.

Now she wished she'd paid more attention.

"Who knows?" Mariah offered. "Maybe one of the other tributes has seen us around the training center. Maybe they noticed you. Maybe they'll assume—"

_Assume what? _she wanted to blurt out. _Assume I'm good with a weapon? Assume I want to be here, despite the fact that I was crying onstage? Assume I can fight?_

_ Assume I can kill?_

But she didn't say any of it. She didn't want her friends to be upset. Not when this might be the last time she ever saw them. No. No, she couldn't leave them like that.

Kinley forced a smile. "Maybe. Maybe that'll be enough to get me into the pack."

But did she even want that? Did she really want to team up with anyone who _wanted_ to be there? Did she want to ally with someone who was eager to kill?

Someone who might be eager to kill her?

"If there even _is_ a pack," Jaqueline pointed out. "None of the others are volunteers, either. Who knows how much training they've had?"

She had a point. Maybe _none_ of them were bloodthirsty killers. Most of them were probably just like her.

She wasn't sure whether that made it better or worse.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18**

_You have to let go now._

Barclay shook his head. Part of him heard the Peacekeeper at the door, telling him to move. Telling him to let go. But he didn't want to. Not yet.

He wasn't ready.

He wasn't ready to let go of Marielle, who looked up at him with admiration shining in her eyes. His little sister, who wanted to grow up to do exactly what he was about to do: go into the Games. It didn't matter to her that it wasn't what he wanted at all. She was proud of him. She wanted to be just like him.

But he didn't want to be here at all.

He wasn't ready to let go of his friends. Aren and Kennedy and Mina. He wasn't ready to leave them behind, to step into a world where he knew no one. Where everyone else would be trying to kill him. He wasn't ready to leave the safety of his district.

He wasn't ready to kill.

Oh, he'd been to the training center. Almost everyone had, at one point or another. His family had the money to pay for whatever training he'd wanted, but he and his friends had rarely taken advantage of that. The first time they'd tried, a few years ago, they had quickly gotten bored and left. It wasn't as exciting as it had looked.

But he still liked to go and watch. Watch the boys and girls hack away at those dummies, even though it made him sick when he imagined actually doing that to a person. Didn't they realize that was what they were training for? Didn't they realize that they would be killing _people_, not tearing apart stuffed bags and shooting clay birds?

And now _he_ would have to do the same.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to become one of them. Heartless. Ruthless. He didn't want to be that. He didn't want to.

But he also didn't want to die.

Barclay held his friends closer as the Peacekeeper came barging in the door, shouting that they were already late. That the train would be leaving soon. Barclay held on even tighter. Maybe if he held on long enough, the train would leave without him.

Maybe if he just held on…

* * *

"_The past tempts us, the present confuses us, and the future frightens us. And our lives slip away, moment by moment, lost in that vast terrible in-between." _


	6. District Five: Delusions

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _ShayCandyBar714_, _Acereader55_, and _addicted-to-my-reflection _for Mirami, Mercury, and Niles, respectively.

* * *

**District Five Reaping  
****Delusions**

* * *

**Sabine Plecity, 21  
****Victor of the 20****th**** Hunger Games**

"Not a bad idea for a Quell twist."

Sabine glanced over at Harakusie as they made their way over to Tania's house. "Not a bad idea? Twelve more kids are going to die! How is that 'not bad'?"

Beside them, Jai chuckled a little, clearly entertained. Harakuise shot him a look. "Yes?"

Jai smirked. "Oh, nothing. Please, go on. I want to hear this, too."

Harakuise shrugged obligingly. "If you insist. Tell me, Sabine, what makes this any different from a normal year?"

Sabine glared; she hated it when he got that teacher-coaxing-on-a-student tone of voice, as if she was still his tribute in the Games. But she answered, anyway. "Twelve more tributes."

Harakuise nodded. "One per district, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Now let's say that, tomorrow, the Peacekeepers were to execute someone – let's say a teenager, for consistency's sake – for, oh, I don't know, attacking them with a weapon. Would that bother you?"

"Not really." That's what Peacekeepers did.

"And if there were, say, an armed rebellion, and the Capitol fought back, and killed the rebels – would you be upset about that?"

"Well, no, but—"

Harakuise nodded. "So what's the difference?"

"The kids who are reaped – they didn't _do _anything. They weren't carrying weapons. They didn't start a rebellion. They don't want to be there."

"Says the girl who volunteered."

Sabine glared. "That was different. I was—"

"Suicidal. Desperate. You had the sense to realize that your life here wasn't so great, after all, so you decided to go after something better – all or nothing. That's what the Quell is doing this year – giving twelve more tributes a chance at the same thing."

"But only one can win. So the chances actually go down."

Harakuise shrugged. "Let's not pretend this is about the odds. It's never really a one-in-twenty-four chance, anyway. No one ever has a completely equal chance of winning; this year is no different."

Sabine shook her head. She wasn't going to get anywhere. "You actually believe all that."

Jai smirked. "Five years of practically living with us, and you haven't realized that yet? He's completely sincere."

"Absolutely," Harakuise agreed. "But you put up with me, anyway."

Sabine smiled a little. He was right. She put up with him. He and Jai put up with her. Maybe it was a little strange, but families always were.

And they were the only family she had.

After collecting their remaining family member, Tania, the four of them headed for the square. Jai headed off into the crowd, saluting playfully. "Don't burn down the house while we're gone," Harakuise called causally after him as the three of them took their places onstage. Sabine caught a few snickers from the audience as she took a seat next to her mentor.

_Twelve more. One per district. Not as bad as it could be._

Sabine reached out and took Tania's hand in hers. Tania smiled back gratefully. Sabine knew this would be hardest on her; she hadn't mentored in five years. Not since Sabine had won and taken her place. A place Tania had been happy to surrender.

The traditional video played, beginning with the Capitol anthem. Harakuise immediately rose to his feet, standing perfectly at attention. Sabine hid a smile as she followed his example.

When the video was finished, the three of them sat down again, and the mayor read off their names. Three of them. More than any other non-Career district. In fact, only District One could claim more victors. Maybe that _was_ something to be proud of.

Their escort, Ariadne Kingsley, certainly seemed to think so. She flashed each of them a smile before turning her attention to the reaping bowl. Reaching in quickly, she snatched up the first name her fingers found.

"Mirami Fiyan!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a strapless pastel-blue dress and a flouncy skirt. Then, to Sabine's surprise, the girl's face broke out in a huge grin, as if she'd been hoping this would happen. She was practically skipping as she made her way to the stage, her short, dark brown hair bouncing up and down as she hurried up the steps, her brown eyes glowing with excitement.

Sabine couldn't help staring. Was the girl trying to put on a good show, or was she simply insane? At the moment, she was impossible to read. Sabine glanced over at Harakuise, who simply shrugged. He'd seen weirder. And the look he gave her was clear as day: _Someone who volunteered for this has absolutely no room to question anyone's sanity._

He had a point.

"Mercury Helix!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a white-and-blue t-shirt and jeans. For a moment, she simply stood there, her mouth hanging open a little. But, as the Peacekeepers began to move towards her, she closed her mouth, brushed away a few tears, and put on a smile that was almost convincing. She hurried to the stage, blowing a few kisses, and threw her arms excitedly around her new district partner, who quickly returned the gesture.

Other than their apparent enthusiasm, the girls looked very little alike. Mercury was taller and paler, with blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a few freckles. Now that she was closer, Sabine could see that both her shirt and pants were well-worn and had a few holes. But they were both grinning as they turned to Ariadne, waiting for the last name…

"Niles Avdeyev!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy at the very edge of the section, already as far away from the others as he could get. He was about average height but thinner than usual, with short, dark hair and unusually pale skin. He was staring, shocked, blinking rapidly.

Then, without any warning, he began marching his way toward the stage, shouting. Cursing. Cursing the Capitol. Cursing the district. Cursing the escort and, finally, cursing his fellow tributes. "Look at you! Just standing there, grinning, while you're led to the slaughter! In front of a district that doesn't have the backbone to do anything about it! And you!" He wheeled around, blue eyes bright with anger, and turned his tirade on Harakuise. "The worst of the lot! Silence is one thing, but _you_, you _support _all of this! And they worship you for it! You—"

He would likely have continued for quite a while, but a blow to the head from one of the Peacekeeper's clubs quickly silenced him. Sabine glanced over at Harakuise, who, to her surprise, didn't appear upset or even fazed. In fact, he was smiling a little, his expression almost smug. Had he been expecting this?

Had he _arranged _this?

Sabine swallowed hard. It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how powerful he was. Just how much influence he had. To her, he was simply her mentor. But to the district – or, at least, to the more rebellious citizens – his name still evoked a certain amount of fear.

The stage and the crowd cleared quickly after that, leaving the three victors. "Well," Harakuise said at last, "I suppose I'll take—"

"I'll take the boy," Tania interrupted before he could say it.

Harakuise cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Why?" But his tone wasn't accusing – merely curious.

Tania met his gaze. "Because you want him dead. And most likely, he will be dead. I'm not an idiot, Harakuise; I know how the Games work. But I won't let you be the one to lead him to it. I won't let you do that to him … or to yourself. I won't let you _be_ that. I won't let you become … _him_."

That stopped Harakuise in his tracks. Sabine knew who she was talking about. The victors all knew – unofficially – what had happened to Pardeck, the mentor who had intentionally sought his tributes' deaths in the Games. And everyone also knew who had taken him down.

Harakuise nodded a little, subdued. "I … thank you."

"You're welcome."

Harakuise hesitated for a moment, visibly rattled, before regaining his composure, putting on a back-to-business expression, and turning to Sabine. "Preference?"

Sabine thought for a moment. From the look of things, the girls would work well together, anyway. But Mercury was a little older. And it had taken her a moment to put on her enthusiastic front, which meant there was something underneath. "I'll take Mercury."

Harakuise nodded crisply. "All yours."

Sabine shook her head. He'd let her choose first for the past four years. And she had yet to have a tribute who made it farther than his. He was always the first to point out that 'making it farther' didn't really matter. And he was right, of course. Second place was no different than twenty-fourth, in the end; both ended up dead. But maybe this year would be different.

Maybe this year.

* * *

**Mirami Fiyan, 14**

The Capitol.

Mirami was still smiling at the thought. She had dreamt of the Capitol all her life, and now, she would finally see it for herself. See it in all its beauty, all its glory – and during a Quarter Quell, no less. As special as it could get. And if she won – no, _when_ she won – she would never have to come back to District Five again. Surely they would let her stay in the Capitol, where she belonged.

Mirami was still smiling when her parents entered the room. They looked a little nervous, but they were probably just upset about not being able to see her for a week or two. But they would – they would be watching the screen the whole time, after all. She would be there. And maybe they could move to the Capitol with her, when she won.

Her mother forced a shaky smile as she slipped Mirami's favorite silver ring onto her hand. Her father wrapped an arm around her. "We love you, sweetie," he said gently. "Come back to us."

Mirami nodded. She would. Of course she would. Everyone knew that tributes who loved the Capitol were always favorites in the Games. They would adore her – and why not? Everyone else did. Why, only yesterday, after Mirami had given her a beautiful necklace for her birthday, Lacie had told her that she was the best friend in the world.

Mirami grinned even wider when Lacie entered the room. Lacie smiled nervously. "I just came to say … well, good luck."

Mirami beamed. "When I win, I'll share part of my winnings with you. We'll have everything we ever wanted."

That cheered her up. The promise of shared wealth also cheered up the next dozen or so of her classmates who came. And why not? She would have more than enough for everyone. The Capitol was so generous to its victors. Her friends would never want for anything ever again.

At last, they were all gone, and Mirami sat fiddling her ring. So many people. And all so supportive. And if so many people wanted her to win, how could she lose?

She could hardly wait.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15**

_Stay positive._

Mercury took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. It had been easier when her family was there. Easier to smile. Easier to laugh. Easier to try to make a joke out of the situation, to keep the atmosphere light. And she wanted to keep smiling. To look on the bright side.

But there weren't too many bright sides to a fight to the death.

But surely there was something. Something good about this. Sure, she was headed to the Capitol, and about the be thrown into an arena with thirty-five teenagers who would be trying to kill her … but it couldn't _all _be bad.

There had to be _something_ good.

The Capitol. That would be good. She'd heard stories about the wealth, the comfort, the luxury that would be theirs for a short time before the Games. The food, the warm showers, the soft beds – that would be good. She could look forward to that.

And the clothes. She had always secretly admired the Capitol's fashions. Most people thought they were strange, but most people were too serious for their own good, anyway. The Capitol's clothes were bright, cheerful, light-hearted – everything that the other students, always engaged in their work, looked down on her for. But the Capitol people would accept her for who she was. They loved anything new and different, just like her.

Maybe that was where she really belonged.

But not for long. Only a few days. And then…

No. No, she wouldn't think about that. Not yet. There was still the Capitol to look forward to. She would enjoy that. She would savor it, soak it all in, enjoy every moment that she could.

Then she would worry about the Games.

No point in worrying about them right now, anyway. There wasn't anything she could do about them at the moment. Fretting about them wouldn't make them go away. It was only a waste of time.

And she didn't want to waste whatever time she had left.

* * *

**Niles Avdeyev, 16**

No one came.

Niles paced the room, agitated, for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a matter of minutes. Where were they? Surely they were coming. He and his father had always had their differences, especially after what had happened to his mother, but their family had always been close. They wouldn't abandon him now.

They couldn't.

Finally, the door opened, but on the other side stood a pale woman with bright red hair. Tania. Niles took a step forward. "What are _you_ doing here? Where's my family?"

Tania looked away. "I'm sorry, Niles. I truly am. They wanted to come. But … they've been arrested."

Arrested. His father had been arrested before – mostly for disturbing the peace with his protests and threats against the Capitol. But something in Tania's voice told him that this time was different. And what about Nyran and Metisse? "All of them?"

Tania nodded. "They were taken immediately after the reaping."

Niles glared. "This is your friend's doing, isn't it. Harakuise."

"Yes."

"What's going to happen to them?"

Tania swallowed hard. "He's arranged for their execution – immediately following your death."

Niles took a step back. Execution. Following his death. "But I'm not going to die. I'm coming back, and when I do—"

Tania was shaking her head. "Niles, listen to me. Your family's history—"

"My family stands for equality! Tearing down the Capitol and redistributing what they rightfully owe us!" He'd heard the words so many times from his father, he could have repeated them in his sleep.

But Tania seemed not to have heard. "Your family has survived this long only because Harakuise was convinced you couldn't do any real damage. No one was listening to your father; most of the people don't trust him. But they decided this was the right time. The first Quarter Quell. A big spectacle. It was only a matter of time."

Only a matter of time. Could it be true? Had he truly been living on borrowed time? "Then the reaping was rigged? I was meant to be chosen?"

Tania nodded. "I suspect so, yes."

"Then why me? Why not all three of us?" Why not his twin brother, Nyran? Why not Metisse, who had just turned fourteen a few days ago? Both were of reaping age. So why not make it a real spectacle?

But he already knew the answer. Three Avdeyev children in the Games could band together. They wanted him alone when he made his last stand.

But it wouldn't be his last. He would find a way. Whatever it took, he would find a way to survive. To defy the Capitol. To bring them down.

Whatever it took.

* * *

"_If you're going to have delusions, may as well go for the really satisfying ones."_


	7. District Six: Apathy

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yep, another update. Expect them a bit more frequently this month; I'm counting this as my NaNoWriMo project. 50,000 words in a month, here I come. :)

Thank you to _kopycat101_, _Indigo Starling, _and _Conatus_ for Ryzer, Cassandra, and Luke, respectively.

* * *

**District Six Reaping  
****Apathy**

* * *

**Vernon Barrow, 29  
****Victor of the 13****th**** Hunger Games**

Why did he do this to himself?

Vernon shook his head. "Matt! Luke! Erik!" he called again. "We're going to be late!"

As if they would start without him. District Six's only victor. No, they would wait. But it was better not to make a scene.

Finally, they came running out of the shop – the three boys he had taken in five years ago. Orphans, all of them. His way of making up for what he had done during the Games. The lives he had taken. He had killed three boys. Now he was raising three boys. It evened itself out.

At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.

He never told the boys, of course. They thought he was simply being kind. Or maybe they thought they showed some promise in his mechanic shop, which he had reopened as a distraction. Something to take his mind off of his memories. And they _did_ show some promise. All three would make excellent mechanics some day.

Assuming they lived long enough.

_Stop thinking like that. _The chances of them being reaped were minimal. Thanks to his support, none of them had ever had to take tesserae. It was Matt's last year. Next year would be Luke's last. And then Erik's, two years after that.

Then they would be safe.

They still looked nervous, but he could hardly blame them for that. He had been more than nervous. He had been terrified. But he had survived. They could do the same. He was no weapons expert, but he had taught them a little. The four of them would occasionally spar with some of the spare parts around the shop. And all three were good with their hands. They would have a good, fighting chance – which was all that anyone could ask for.

_Stop it._

It wasn't going to happen. None of them would be reaped. He was just being paranoid. There were plenty of other children. Poorer children. Children with their names in the bowl more times. It wouldn't be one of them.

It couldn't be.

They headed for the square together. Matt, Luke, and Erik joined the other boys, and Vernon took his place onstage. Their escort, Roderick Kane, barely glanced at him. He was waiting – just waiting – for a chance to be bumped up to District Five, where they had three victors instead of one.

Vernon clenched his fists. One was better than none. He was doing the best he could. The best he knew how to do. It wasn't his fault that most of the children who had been chosen as his tributes stood no chance. It wasn't his fault the Careers had dominated the Games for the last four years. Maybe this year, with no volunteers, the outer districts would have a better chance.

Vernon held his breath as Roderick reached into the bowl and drew a name. _Not Matt. Not Luke. Not Erik._

"Luke Marsanskis!"

_Damn it. _Vernon fought to keep his face blank. Emotionless. His eyes quickly found Luke in the seventeen-year-old section. The boy was struggling to do the same. Slowly walking towards the stage, trying to keep his expression calm, his eyes fixed on Vernon. Vernon gave a slight nod, and Luke managed to smile a little. Okay. They could get through this.

Together.

If Roderick recognized their connection, he gave no sign. It wasn't as if it was obvious. Pale-skinned, with short cropped light brown hair and light brown eyes, Luke looked nothing like Vernon. Looked nothing like his "brothers." There was no way for Roderick to know they were family.

And, for now, that was all right. No need to make a big deal out of it now. Later, they could decide how much to tell the Capitol. Decide whether the connection would draw sympathy or make him a target. Later.

First they had to get through two more names.

Roderick reached into the bowl again. _Not Matt. Not Erik. _One of them being there, he could deal with. He could focus his attention on Luke. But if he was forced to choose…

"Cassandra Sake!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted for a girl in a light grey dress. Vernon could see the fear in her face. The panic. She was tall, but terribly thin and bony, her skin extremely pale, her hair light brown, sparse, and short.

Vernon fought back a surge of pity. He couldn't afford to feel sorry for her. Any other year, she would have had his sympathy. But not this year. This year, she had to die. Because Luke had to live.

Then, suddenly, the fear in her gaze was gone. As the girl began walking towards the stage, she almost looked bored. Her pace was careful, measured – not too fast, not too slow. Neither eager nor apprehensive. Her large brown eyes met his, staring at him. _Through _him. As if she didn't even care that he was there. That _she_ was there. As if, for some reason, none of it mattered.

Vernon looked away. Maybe she had already given up. That would make this easier. Easier to ignore her. Easier to forget that he was supposed to mentor all three of them. But how was he supposed to do that, with Luke here? It was too much for one person.

Too much…

"Ryzer Hijore."

Vernon breathed a sigh of relief. Matt and Erik were safe – Erik for another year, Matt forever. The sixteen-year-old section made way for a girl in a navy blue shirt, long black coat, and faded black skirt. Most of her face was hidden by her bangs, but, after a moment, the girl gave a laugh. A cackle, really. Vernon stared, startled, as the girl skipped up to the stage, grinning.

She was almost as pale and thin as the other girl, but a bit shorter. Her hair, long and dark, hung past her shoulders, her bangs shielding her eyes. As she bounded up the stairs, however, her hair bounced back and forth, and Vernon caught a glimpse beneath them. Her left eye was covered with a patch, but the other was a deep brown – almost black – and was studying her district partners curiously.

After a moment, Ryzer held out her hand to the other girl, who hesitated before shaking it. Ryzer pumped Cassandra's arm cheerily up and down, then did the same to Luke. At last, Luke held out his hand to Cassandra, who shook it weakly.

And then it was over. Vernon watched as the three of them were herded away. Then he found Matt and Erik in the audience. Both were pretty badly shaken. "You'll make sure he comes back, right?" Erik asked, near tears.

"Of course I will," Vernon nodded. And he would. He would do his best. For them. For Luke. For himself.

This was his chance to make it right.

* * *

**Luke Marsanskis, 17**

Vernon came along with Matt and Erik.

Luke hugged his adoptive father tightly. Obviously, this wasn't goodbye; as his mentor, Vernon would be with him in the Capitol. They would make it through this together, the two of them.

Because he might as well admit it: it _would_ be just the two of them. The other two would have to fend for themselves. A small part of him felt guilty for it, but what else could they do? It wasn't his fault Vernon didn't have someone else to help him mentor the other two. And it wasn't Vernon's fault, either. He'd tried his best to bring back another victor, but, so far, had been unsuccessful.

But this year would be different. This year, he had a reason to try even harder than normal. This year, they would be coming back together.

Luke ruffled Erik's hair a little. "Take care of the shop while we're gone, okay."

_While we're gone_. As if they were simply going on a trip together – father and son. They all knew better, of course, but it felt good to pretend. To imagine, if only for a moment, that the Games weren't that big a deal. That they could simply go, spend a few weeks in the Capitol, and come back as if nothing had happened.

But they all knew better. He had spent enough time with Vernon to know that no one returned from the Games quite the same as when they went in. The Games had changed Vernon, as they changed every other victor. There was a part of him that no one in the district understood, that even his adopted sons couldn't share.

Until now.

Now they had this in common. And, as frightened as he was, Luke couldn't help but be grateful for that. For this one thing that would bind them together forever, even tighter than before. Father and son. Mentor and tribute. Together, they could get through this.

Together, they could face anything.

But they wouldn't be together in the arena. Luke held his family close, trying to imagine that. Trying to imagine being alone. Facing danger without them at his side. The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

Matt and Erik left, but Vernon stayed. He stayed until the Peacekeepers came to bring them to the train. And for that, Luke was grateful. Eventually, he would have to face the Games on his own. But not yet.

Not yet.

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17**

This was her chance.

Cassandra tucked her knees to her chest, watching as her family left. She hadn't realized it until she'd heard her name. Hadn't put the pieces together. But this was her chance. Her chance to make everything right again.

If she won, the Capitol would cure her. If she won, everything would be all right again. There would be no more lying in bed, too weak to go to school with the other children. No more looks of disgust from her neighbors. No more grudging help from her family. She would never need to rely on them again. She would never be a burden to them again.

But first she had to win.

Most people saw the Games as a death sentence. But the doctors had as good as sentenced her to death years ago. At the most, she had only a few years left, anyway. A few years or a few days – what difference did it make? Either way, she was living on borrowed time.

Unless she won.

Cassandra closed her eyes, trying to focus. Yes. Yes, she could do this. This was her chance to make up for the misery she had caused her family over the years. Her only chance to make things right. For them. For herself. For the life she'd never had.

Cassandra clenched her fists. She could do it. She would. They were dead – all thirty-five of them. Every last one. She would kill all of them herself, if that was what she had to do. She would do anything.

_Anything_.

And why not? What had they ever done to deserve her pity? Her mercy? Outside her family, no one had ever shown her sympathy. Why should they expect any better from her? They were no different than any of the other teenagers who had mocked and scorned her all these years.

A freak, they called her. Or a demon. Or a monster. Or a witch. They laughed at her. Spat at her. Mocked and despised her. They deserved no better. They deserved no mercy.

So she would show them none.

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16**

Maybe it was better this way.

Ryzer hummed a little as she sat, rocking back and forth, waiting. Just waiting. No one was coming; she was fairly sure of that. She hadn't seen her mother since she'd left home a little over a year ago, deciding that her chances were better on the streets.

But maybe her chances were actually better in the Games.

She would have starved, soon, anyway; she was fairly certain of that. In the months after she had left, she had quickly grown thinner. Frailer. She had resorted to eating rats. Mice. Birds that had been left in the gutter by cats. Sometimes the cats themselves, if she could catch them. But that wasn't very often. Cats were even quicker than they looked. And smarter.

But so was she. She had seen what the others had missed. What her district partner had missed. She had seen their mentor watching the boy. Carefully. Protectively. They knew each other.

And that was bad news for her and Cassandra.

Or good news. It meant they were on their own. But she'd been on her own for a long time. Longer than she'd been on the streets. She worked well on her own. Alone with her book, her spells, her rhymes.

But there was something appealing about working with the others – or at least with Cassandra. There was something about her. Something beautiful. Something unique.

Ryzer giggled. She would get her chance. Vernon would focus his attention on Luke; she and Cassandra would be on their own. But Luke wouldn't have Vernon with him in the arena. The three of them would be on their own.

Three. That was a good number. Special, just like this Quell. Three of them. Then two. Then one. Then none. Whether in a few weeks or in many years – sooner or later, none of the three would be left.

Three. Ryzer gave another little cackle, singing softly.

_When shall we three meet again,  
__Meet again, meet again?  
__When shall we three meet again?  
__In lightning or in rain?  
__When the hurlyburly's done,  
__When the battle's lost and won.  
__That will be ere the set of sun,  
__When we three meet again._

* * *

"_Perhaps bravery is simply apathy with delusions of grandeur."_


	8. District Seven: Prepared

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings.

Thank you to _Cheive_, _Aspect of One_, and _Aileen's feather_ for Jason, Viktoria, and Saoirse, respectively.

* * *

**District Seven Reaping  
****Prepared**

* * *

**Hazel Birnam, 34  
****Victor of the 3****rd**** Hunger Games**

She was alone.

Hazel looked away as their new escort, Davina Waverly, grinned enthusiastically at her despite the rain. She felt more alone now than ever before. Arthrim, her own mentor and then District Seven's escort for twenty-one years, had passed away after a heart attack a few months before. Davina was new. Inexperienced. Naïve. Bursting with energy, eager for the chance to be bumped up a district or two. Up to a district where they had proper victors, not a twelve-year-old girl who had won only because the Gamemakers had taken sides against a rebel.

Because that was the only reason she was still alive. And, for a while, she had been grateful. Regardless of the reason, at least she had survived. She still had a life to live.

But none of her tributes could say the same.

Twenty-one years, and what did she have to show for it? Forty-two dead children. Forty-two broken families. There had been a few close chances. Twelve years ago, the boy, Ellery, had made it to the final two before meeting his fate at Vernon's hands.

But it hadn't been enough.

_Maybe this year_.

It was the same old song, the same thing she told herself every year. _This year. This year will be different_. Every year, she got her hopes up. Every year, she told herself that _this_ year's tributes were different. This year, they had a chance.

And she was always wrong.

But she kept saying it. She had to. She couldn't just give up on them, despite what she told herself. Because once she saw them – once she _met _them – she simply couldn't bear not to try, no matter how much it hurt. They were depending on her. They needed her.

And she needed them. Just once – just _once _– she needed one of them to come home. Then maybe her own victory, her own life, would mean something. Would be worth something.

Maybe.

Davina grinned as the mayor finished her speech, then took her place by the reaping bowl. Hazel scanned the crowd. Three names this year. Three children, instead of two. And at least two of them would be dead soon. But not three. Not this year.

Not this time.

Davina drew a name, stared at it for a moment, perplexed, then gave it her best try. "Sour-see Terris?"

Hazel cringed. Clearly, Davina had badly mispronounced the name. But the sixteen-year-old section parted, anyway, making way for a girl in a dark red dress and old, well-worn sneakers. But no sooner had she taken a few steps forward than a voice called out, "I volunteer!"

The girl whirled around, just as startled as anyone else, to see that the voice belonged to a boy in the fifteen-year-old section, waving his arms wildly, still shouting that he wanted to volunteer. "I … I'm sorry," Davina stammered, not quite sure how to respond to that. "There aren't any volunteers allowed this year. Maybe next year, dearie."

"But I want to volunteer _this_ year!" the boy insisted. But, before he got any farther than that, he was interrupted by another boy – this one in the eighteen-year-old section, shouting that he wanted to volunteer, as well. By now, the Peacekeepers were stirring, making their way toward the girl and the two boys. The girl noticed, and hurried to the stage before anyone else could try to volunteer.

She was about average height, with long, curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. Once onstage, she flashed a smirk at Davina. "Actually, it's Saoirse."

"Pardon?" Davina asked, quite flustered by the whole affair.

"My name. It's pronounced 'Sir-shuh,'" she corrected, still smirking. Hazel couldn't hide a smile. Davina had clearly been hoping for an explanation for what had just happened, but the girl offered none.

So Davina turned back to the reaping bowl and drew another name, barely containing a sigh of relief when the second name turned out to be far easier to pronounce. "Jason Vaz!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a tan button-down shirt and brown striped pants. For a moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, maybe hoping that someone would try to volunteer for him as well – even though it had been useless. When he finally started walking to the stage, Hazel could see that he was already crying, though his face was wrinkled with anger, not sadness. His fists were tightly clenched but trembling uncontrollably as he took his place beside his district partner.

He was a little taller than her, with dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. Saoirse smiled a little – maybe trying to be welcoming, maybe just glad that none of the boys who had tried to volunteer for her were standing in his place. Jason glared back, but his glare wasn't meant for her; it was directed at the whole reaping. The whole idea of standing here, waiting to be taken away to his death.

Davina, however, seemed unconcerned with his attitude. She simply turned back to the reaping bowl and drew a third name. "Viktoria Halisent!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a slender girl in a light blue dress. The girl stared for a moment, uncertain, before taking her first few hesitant steps towards the stage. After a few more steps, she began to walk faster, perhaps trying to hide the fact that she was shaking like a leaf. She was still trembling as she took her place beside her district partners.

She was about average height, with fair skin and light brown hair reaching midway down her back. Her dark brown eyes were brimming with tears as the other girl shook her hand. Mercifully, the cameras snapped off as soon as the handshakes were finished. The Capitol didn't see her burst into tears. The Capitol didn't see the other girl wrap her arms around her, then reach out and pull the boy in for a hug, as well, while the rain beat down even harder.

But Hazel saw. She always saw. This was the hard part: the moment when the tributes recognized that they were all facing the same thing. They were connected by a shared terror, a shared dread. The moment when fear made companions of them all. And, yet, at the same time, the moment where they recognized that, in order for them to come home, the other tribute – the other _child_ – had to die.

Hazel looked away, trying not to remember. Trying not to think of Sylvan, of how he had comforted her the same way. How he had protected her, looked after her during the Games, given his life to save her.

But he'd had to die. Only one of them could make it home. Just as only one of these three could live. Two of them would have to die.

But only two. Not all of them. Not this year.

Not again.

* * *

**Saoirse Terris, 16**

They had been trying to help.

Saoirse held her brothers close, savoring their presence for what she knew might be the last time. They had been trying to create a distraction, to allow her time to run. To hide. To get away.

But it was pointless. She had seen people run at the reaping. No one ever got away. Why would she be any different? Where could she have gone? And what would they have done to her brothers for helping her try to escape?

No. No, it was better this way. She was headed to the Games, but they were safe. Safe for another year.

"I'm sorry it didn't work," Trevor repeated. "I thought it was a good plan."

"I would have volunteered for real if I could," Levi agreed.

"Me, too," Armin echoed.

Saoirse could feel her tears brimming. She was glad they couldn't. She wasn't glad _she_ was going into the Games, of course, but, of the four of them … she wouldn't wish this on any of them. She wouldn't want any of them to take her place.

She would never be able to live with herself.

For a moment – a terrible moment before the next two names were called – she had feared that one of them would be going with her. But they were safe.

She would be alone.

But not just yet. For now, the six of them sat together, Saoirse and her brothers huddled close, their parents seated nearby. When, at last, she let go, she could see that Armin was sobbing. Before she could stop herself, Saoirse was crying, too. She couldn't stand to see her little brother upset. She couldn't leave them like this.

Not like this.

But there wasn't anything else to say. No words of comfort to give. They all knew the odds – even worse than normal. Thirty-six tributes, and only one could live. Did she really have any reason to expect that it would be her?

"I love you," she whispered at last, quietly, as the Peacekeepers came to show them out. She hugged each of them tightly, one last time. Then, all too soon, she was alone, sobbing into her sleeve, already wishing she could see them again. But, in order to do that, she would have to fight. She would have to kill. She would have to win.

But they were worth it. Coming home to them – it was worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

**Jason Vaz, 15**

They all seemed so certain.

Jason did his best to smile at his friends, trying to appear as confident as they looked. How much of it was an act and how much of it they really felt, Jason wasn't sure. Were they just trying to make him feel better, or did they truly believe he would be coming home?

"You can do this," Todd insisted.

He said it a little too quickly, a little too easily, for Jason's liking. "How do you _know_?" he snapped. "How can you be so certain? How can all of you just sit there like this might not be the last … the last time…"

He trailed off. If this really _was_ the last time – if it was the last time he would see his friends, the last time he would talk to them – then he didn't want to leave them like this. He didn't want to be angry with them. He didn't want their last memories of him to be like this.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "You're right. Of course I'll do my best. I'll try to win, but if I don't … if I can't … I just want you to know … you're the best, all of you."

Kristof punched him playfully. "Of course we are."

Jason shook his head. "No, I mean it. You're the best friends I could ask for, and if I don't make it … just … be there for each other. And keep an eye on Robin, will you?" Jason didn't know – maybe he didn't _want_ to know – how his little brother would react if he died. Would he be able to handle it?

No. No, he wouldn't have to. Jason clenched his fists, holding onto that thought as the Peacekeepers came and led the others away. He couldn't force them to deal with that. He couldn't make all of them – his friends, his parents, his little brother – face losing him.

He would just have to come back. For them.

Because he had meant it: They were the best friends he could ask for. They had been there for him – and he for them – through everything. And they would be waiting for him when he came home.

Because they were worth it. Coming back to them – it was worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

**Viktoria Halisent, 16**

Anatoli had found out everything he could.

Viktoria listened intently as her brother spilled all the details he had managed to gather about the others. "The boy's parents own a hardware store. Fairly well off – chances are, he's never had to go without. He's been in trouble before – nothing serious. Pulling a prank here, picking a fight there. Sounds like he's got a bit of a temper; watch out for that. The girl's got three brothers – they're the ones who caused all the fuss at the reaping. She'll probably be naturally protective of the boy. Use that to your advantage if you can."

Viktoria nodded. Anatoli didn't miss much. His insight often came in handy when scouting out their next targets. Just as useful as her persuasive skills. They made a good pair.

They had started small, the two of them – a little con here, a little pickpocketing there. But, after a few years, they had perfected their craft. Anatoli used his boss' blacksmith shop to forge cheap tools and trinkets, which always fetched a good price on the black market. He provided the goods, and she was an expert salesman.

At first, they had done it for the money. Now, they did it for the thrill – coming up with more elaborate cons, just to see how much they could get away with. They rarely kept any of the money any more, preferring to spread the wealth to those who needed it more. Just like the Robber Prince in the stories.

Viktoria shook the thought from her head. Those were just stories. But she didn't live in a story. The Robber Prince wasn't real. The Games were. Her opponents were. And anything Anatoli could find out about them – no matter how ordinary or seemingly insignificant – was useful. "Thank you," she nodded, knowing he had done his best. The only thing he could do to help her now.

"You're welcome," Anatoli nodded. After a moment, he added, "Don't trust them."

Viktoria scoffed. That went without saying. Trust was for people with nothing on the line. There was certainly no place for it in the Games. She would work with them, if she had to. Manipulate them, as she and Anatoli had manipulated so many others. But trust them? No, she couldn't afford that.

Because she had to come home. Which meant they had to die. Maybe at her hands. But coming home – back to her brother, back to the life they had together – that was worth it. Worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

"_You're not just a dreamer. You're a soldier! How far are you prepared to go? How much are you prepared to risk? How many people are you prepared to sacrifice for victory?"_


	9. District Eight: React

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _Jael .Rice __.1_, _nevergone4ever_, and _Deuce Ex Machina _for Enzo, Shilo, and Fletcher, respectively.

* * *

**District Eight Reaping  
****React**

* * *

**Carolina Young, 33  
****Victor of the 10****th**** Hunger Games**

"There has to be more to it."

Carolina shook her head as she, Lander, and Mabel made their way to the square. "It just doesn't make sense. The Quell could have been anything. Something more extravagant, more complicated. Adding a tribute is rather … straightforward."

Lander nodded. "True, but this is just the part that will affect the reaping. My guess is, once they're in the arena, there'll be more. A complex arena, different mutts, special weapons – who knows?"

"Still, they could have doubled the number of tributes," Carolina pointed out. "Or tripled it. We could have ended up with six tributes. Or eight. Or ten. Three is—" She cut herself off when she saw Mabel's horrified expression. She had almost said _okay_. And it wasn't okay. Twelve more children were going to die. Twelve children who would have been safe, if only this year hadn't had an extra twist. "Manageable," she decided. "Three is manageable."

"Yeah," Lander agreed. "For us, maybe. But I wouldn't want to be mentoring alone during this thing."

He had a point. There were two of them. But Miriam, Vernon, Hazel – they were still on their own, along with whomever the Capitol had found to mentor District Twelve this year. Last year's mentor, Lucian, had made it very clear that he had no intention of returning, Quarter Quell or not.

At least she and Lander had each other.

"I'll take two," Carolina offered. "You handled two tributes alone for four years; it's probably my turn."

"You bet it is. My turn to pick first, though."

Carolina nodded. That was the deal they'd made: whoever's tribute died first one year got their choice which of the two tributes they wanted to mentor the next year. Last year, Brigid had died in the bloodbath, while Trace had made it to the final seven. So it was Lander's to pick.

Maybe it was morbid, but it kept them sane.

Most of the time, it didn't make much of a difference. The four of them – Carolina, Lander, and the two tributes – usually all ended up working closely together, anyway. But, once, there had been a tribute – a girl named Camryn – who had wanted to keep her own training separate, thinking she had a better chance if her district partner didn't know what she was planning.

That was the year Carolina had realized how much she and Lander relied on each other.

Camryn, irritated by Lander's attitude and frustrated by his advice, had decided to do the exact opposite, and ended up getting herself killed in the bloodbath. The boy had lasted a little longer before his allies had turned on him – allies Carolina had thought he could trust. Since then, they'd done their best to encourage their tributes to at least start out making their plans together, because the simple truth was that she and Lander were better as a team.

But, so far, they hadn't been good enough.

Lander squeezed Carolina's hand reassuringly as they headed for the stage, leaving Mabel safely in the audience with the other adults. Safe. She certainly deserved it, after all she'd been through. But that was behind her. Behind all of them. The pain, the loss, the grief – it would always be there, but the memories were no longer as sharp, the wounds no longer as deep.

She took the stairs slowly, gripping Lander's hand. Stairs were still hard. But she made it, and even managed to smile a little as the two of them took their places onstage. Still smiling for the cameras. Still putting on a show.

And Lander was still scowling.

Some things didn't change.

Samarin Lanair, their escort, gave each of them a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Carolina smiled at him – this time genuinely. Samarin had been with District Eight since the start of the Games. Twenty-five years. Other escorts had come and gone, traded districts, moved up to more desirable ones. But Sarmarin was still here. A constant in the ever-changing world of the Games.

Part of her admired him for that.

She and Lander, after all, had no say in the matter. They were stuck mentoring until they brought home another victor to take their place. But Samarin had a choice. And he was still here. Year after year. Tribute after tribute. Death after death.

After the first year, he had dyed his skin bright red. Blood-red.

Lander said it was fitting. His hands were stained red with blood every year – drawing children's names to die – so he may as well make it visible. Carolina wondered if Samarin saw it like that. Was it a reminder to him – a reminder of what his job really entailed? A reminder that, behind all the spectacle and the theatrics, people were dying?

She could understand that. She had her own reminder, after all. The Tenth Hunger Games had left Carolina without an eye – an eye that the Capitol had replaced, at her request, with a red one. A reminder of what she had done. What she had become. Who she was now.

Carolina squeezed Lander's hand a little as Samarin reached into the reaping bowl. She would never get used to this – the waiting. Waiting for the name to be read. Waiting for fate to choose its next victim.

"Enzo Farnese!"

The twelve-year-old section parted around a boy in an outfit that was clearly second-hand: a patched-up shirt and trousers that were too big for him, cuffed so that he wouldn't trip over his own feet. His hair was dark brown and shaggy, his nose a bit crooked. The boy stared, looking around with wide blue eyes, as if wondering why everyone was looking at him. One of the other boys said something, and the boy began shaking his head. No. No, they couldn't have called his name. No, they couldn't have chosen _him_.

Carolina's stomach churned as the Peacekeepers began to make their way towards the boy. _Come on,_ she pleaded silently. _Start walking. Don't make this worse._

She could already see Lander shaking his head. The boy was arguing with the Peacekeepers. Pleading. Begging. Crying that he didn't want to die, crying out for a friend – someone named Bobbie. Then, when that produced no results, calling for someone – anyone – to save him.

But no one would. No one could – not this year. Any other year, she could hope. Hope for a miracle. It had happened, a few times. Her own district partner, Shaw, had been a volunteer.

But not this year. This year, the Peacekeepers scooped up the struggling boy, hauling him to the stage and dumping him at Carolina's feet. As soon as they let go, however, the boy scrambled to his feet again, maybe thinking about making a break for it. A Peacekeeper stepped forward, club ready, prepared to subdue him, but, before he could, Carolina was at the boy's side, arms thrown around him, shielding him and holding him in place. The boy fell to his knees, sobbing. "It's okay," Carolina lied, holding him close, rubbing his back comfortingly, calming him down. "It'll be okay."

She heard Lander scoff, but that didn't matter. It didn't matter that she was lying. All that mattered was that the lie might convince the boy to stand still long enough for Samarin to finish his job. They could worry about the rest later.

Satisfied, the Peacekeeper backed off, and Samarin turned back to the reaping bowl and drew another name. "Janardan Fletcher!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue, button-down shirt and black pants. He was strikingly average in appearance – average height, with fair skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. He was a bit leaner than average, his features a bit sharper, but nothing that would have made him stand out in a crowd.

If his name hadn't just been drawn for a fight to the death, of course.

The Peacekeepers immediately stirred – perhaps thrown off by Enzo's reaction – but the boy gave them no reason to intervene. He began walking towards the stage, quickly and confidently – at least to an untrained eye. Carolina could see the nervousness on his face slowly turn to determination as he took the stairs two at a time. Then he reached down, put an arm around his younger district partner's shoulders, and drew the boy to his feet.

The boy gave Carolina a nod, and she took her place at Lander's side again. Lander shook his head, his expression all too easy to read. _So we've got a crying twelve-year-old and a boy who wants to treat him like a little brother. What's next?_

"Shilo Chanteau!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a loose white blouse and black shorts. Her long brown hair hid her face from the audience, her head bowed for a moment as she collected herself. But, before the Peacekeepers could step in, she gave an excited cry and darted up to the stage, smirking. She was short – even a little shorter than her twelve-year-old district partner – her face pale, her brown eyes wide with something between fear and excitement.

As she passed Carolina, she reached out a hand for a high-five. Carolina obliged, smiling. Playing along. It was an act, but acting was better than crying, as far as the Capitol was concerned. Lander rolled his eyes but slapped the girl's hand, as well. The girl then turned to her district partners. The younger one was staring at her, shocked that anyone could even _pretend _to be that excited about the Games, but the older one smiled along, gave her the high-five she wanted, and then clapped her on the back, shaking her hand firmly. He gave the younger boy a little nudge, and reluctantly, Enzo shook Shilo's hand, as well, then shook the older boy's, as well.

The cameras snapped off, and the crowd dispersed as the tributes were led away. Carolina turned to Lander, smiling wryly. "Your choice." She was almost glad it was his year to choose.

And Lander knew it. "Oh, you're just loving this." He shook his head. "I'll take the older boy. If we can break that protective streak, he's got a chance."

Carolina nodded. It sounded harsh, but Lander was right; protecting younger tributes looked great onstage, but it wouldn't help him once the Games started. She knew that better than most. She'd been the first to jump off her own chariot during the parade to run back and help a girl who had fainted. And it had felt right, in the moment. But everything changed once the Games began.

Carolina shook the thought from her head. This wasn't about Maeren. This was about the tributes they had now, two of whom were now hers. Hers to protect. Hers to advise. Hers to watch as at least one of them died.

Lander's hand squeezed hers tightly. "You all right?"

Carolina shook her head. "No."

Lander smirked. "Me, neither. Let's do this."

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12**

There was nothing she could have done.

Enzo held his friend Bobbie close, crying into her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, over and over again. "I'm sorry I didn't do anything. I just…"

"It's okay," Enzo said quietly. "There's nothing you could have done. I was just scared." He was still scared, of course, but no longer quite as panicked. And he was trying to stay strong. At least long enough to say goodbye.

Because it probably would be goodbye – forever. He didn't want to admit it, and Shilo didn't say it, but what chance did he really have? With thirty-five other tributes – most of them quite a bit older – how could he even think that he would be the one coming home again?

But he didn't say it. He didn't want to upset her. Didn't want her to think that he'd already given up. She wouldn't like that. No reason to get her all upset.

But she _would _be upset later – when he died. No, _if_. _If_ he died. There was still a chance. A small chance, but a chance, nonetheless. Younger tributes had won before. Two of the victors had been fourteen. Hazel had been twelve. But everyone knew they were the exception – not the rule.

But exceptions sometimes happened. This whole Quarter Quell was a year of exceptions. Maybe he had a chance. Maybe…

Probably not, but maybe.

And "maybe" was better than "definitely not." _Maybe_ he could win. _Maybe _he could come home. _Maybe_ he would see Bobbie again.

But he couldn't count on that, so, as the Peacekeepers came to take her away, he gave her one last hug and whispered, "I'll miss you."

She held him even tighter. "I'll miss you, too." Then she let go. "But only for a few weeks. You're coming back."

Enzo nodded and managed to smile a little. "Yeah," he agreed, nodding as the Peacekeepers led her away. "Yeah, I am."

Maybe.

* * *

**Shilo Chanteau, 15**

It was almost funny.

Shilo smiled at the steady stream of people that trickled through the room. People she had met once or twice. People she barely knew. But people who felt obliged to come say goodbye, because they remembered her, or because they felt sorry for her. Not sorry enough to linger for hugs and tears, but sorry enough to show their faces. Sorry enough to mumble a few words of parting before heading back to their normal, everyday lives, grateful that they weren't in her place.

She wished _she_ wasn't in her place.

Not that she had a "normal, everyday" life that she wanted to go back to. Her life had always been far from normal, and she liked it that way. Maybe the audience in the Capitol would even recognize her – the child model from District Eight. The cute little girl in the fashion magazines, proud to represent her district once more.

Maybe that would be enough to help her in the Games.

Maybe. The Games weren't a fashion show, but being one of the more attractive, attention-grabbing tributes never hurt. But, in the end, tributes still needed to have the skills to back up that attention. Skills she didn't have. Skills that years of makeup and fancy outfits and cameras hadn't given her. She was prepared for the attention, prepared for the spotlight – but not prepared to fight. Not prepared to kill.

Still, she had time to get ready. Not much time, but she would make the best of it. And it wasn't as if the other tributes this year would have any training, either. For the most part, they would be on equal footing. She had a chance.

Maybe not the best chance, but still a chance.

So she kept smiling. Smiling at the people who told her they hoped they would see her again, the people who gave her advice, the people who said goodbye as if it were the last time and the people who didn't.

Because, either way, there was a part of her that was excited. Not for the Games themselves, but for the Capitol. The people, the excitement, the energy. District Eight was her home, but the people could be so … dull. Ordinary. Where she was going, nothing was ordinary. Nothing was average. There was no normal in the Games – there was only win or die. Kill or be killed. Alive or dead. One victor. One place in a spotlight that would last forever.

And there was a chance – however small – that it could be hers.

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18**

He wished he could tell them.

Janardan's eyes darted around the room. They were almost certainly being watched. Almost certainly being listened to. This couldn't be a coincidence. The Capitol had finally caught up with him. But that didn't mean that they knew about the rest of them.

He was the one they were after, in the end. They had started the stories themselves for that very purpose – the stories of the Robber Prince. It was easier to avoid attention, easier to hide in plain sight, if the Capitol was only searching for one person, rather than six. At least, that was what they told each other. But, behind that, there was another reason. A reason no one mentioned – at least not out loud.

If one of them was caught – if one of them died – the others could carry on.

The other five – Victoria, Emmett, Chaser, Carlton, and little Davy – they would carry on the story. Keep up the legend. But only if they got away. Only if they escaped now, while they still had the chance. While the Capitol was busy with him.

The others didn't say much. They were smart – smart enough to know that the slightest word, the smallest change in their tone of voice – could give them away. Hopefully, the Peacekeepers who were surely listening at the door would assume that they were just friends. Just a random group of acquaintances.

Hopefully.

Because if they knew that they were inches away from having their hands on the whole Brotherhood of Bastards, they would have broken down the door by now and dragged the whole lot of them to the Capitol in chains. Maybe even thrown them all into the Games, just for show, in return for all the havoc they had caused throughout the districts.

He hugged them all tightly, one last time. Emmett, his right-hand man. Carlton, their resident genius, technical specialist, and all-around grump. Chaser, the prankster and joker of the group. Davy, their newest recruit, only twelve years old. And Victoria. He hugged Victoria last and longest. Neither of them said it, but they both knew. This was goodbye. The Capitol finally had their hands on the Robber Prince, and they weren't about to let him leave the Games alive.

Fletcher smiled a little, clapping his friends on the back. If they wanted him, they could have him – and he would give them the fight of their lives. But his friends were safe. They would carry on without him. "Go," he nodded, and he knew they understood. They had to run. They had to escape. They had to survive.

That was all that mattered now.

* * *

"_Sometimes the test is not to find the answer. It is to see how you react when you realize there _is_ no answer."_


	10. District Nine: Pretending

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _MornieGalad Baggins_, _The Knife Throwing Expert_, and _Khloe Grace _for Dennar, Asteria, and Radiance, respectively.

* * *

**District Nine Reaping  
****Pretending**

* * *

**Tobiah Clement, 24  
****Victor of the 18****th**** Hunger Games**

It was almost noon when Crispin woke him.

Tobiah groaned weakly and rolled over on his side, trying to block out Crispin's voice. It sounded like he was shouting, but that was probably just the hangover. It was hard to imagine Crispin actually shouting. Then again, it was hard to picture him killing other tributes, but apparently he had. He'd won, after all. He must have killed someone.

Tobiah had missed most of that. He'd spent his first year as a mentor in the same state he'd been in since his own Games – either drunk, high, or forgetting his troubles with a pleasurably distracting woman. A woman poor enough and desperate enough that she didn't care if the man she was sleeping with was a drunk, an addict, or a murderer, as long as he paid well.

And he did. He always did. He had more than enough to go around, and it was the least he could do.

"Come on, Tobiah, you'll be late." _Again_. Crispin didn't say it, but the word was there, on the tip of his tongue. Tobiah sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand. His left one was gone – lost in a fight with his own district partner, Pamela, during the finale of his own Games.

They'd wanted to replace it. Wanted to cover up the scars – scars from the razor-sharp stalks of wheat that had covered his arena. Wanted to wash away the pain, pretend it never happened – and, at the same time, revel in the glory. They wanted the best of both worlds: victory without sacrifice, without pain, without loss.

They were idiots.

He'd refused. Refused treatment, refused a mechanical hand, refused everything. He would've refused the prize money, too, if morphling wasn't so expensive. But, like everything else, it came with a price. And if the Capitol could throw him into a fight to the death for their own entertainment, they could damn well pay for the resulting drug habit, as well.

The drugs. "I need to pack—"

Crispin cut him off. "Already done. You can tune out once we're on the train. Just get through the reaping, okay?"

Reluctantly, Tobiah nodded. He'd never understand how Crispin did it every year – strong, sober, healthy. How could he stand it – leading two kids off to their deaths? How could he not want to crawl inside a bottle and let them fend for themselves? After all, he'd gotten through the Games on his own – Tobiah certainly hadn't been much help. Why not trust that the other tributes could do the same?

Because he needed to feel useful, probably. Ever since Crispin had returned from his own Games, he'd spent every possible moment helping someone. Pitching in with the harvest, helping out at the orphanage, visiting the elderly or the dying – anything. Anything to distract him from his memories, anything to try to make up for what he had done.

That was one way of dealing with it.

Tobiah shook his head. His way was easier.

Crispin helped him to his feet and into a somewhat more presentable outfit, then half-carried him to the square and up onstage. Most of the crowd was already there, but they hadn't actually started yet. They weren't late. Not this year.

Crispin was learning.

Their escort, Maddie Doyle, sighed discontentedly as they took their places. Tobiah ignored her. If being in the first district that could claim back-to-back victors wasn't good enough for her, that was her problem, not his. His biggest problem was getting through the reaping, and that was quite enough for him. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pounding in his head, the pain that shot through his eyes as the sun glared down, the murmurs in the crowd that sounded like thunder rolling across the plains.

The plains. He didn't even look out at the plains. The endless fields of wheat, stretching as far as the eye could see. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to remember.

He just wanted to go home.

But he had to get through the Games first. And to do that, he had to get through the reaping. One thing at a time. Just get through this.

_Just get through this._

"Asteria Cordey!"

Tobiah opened his eyes, startled. Had he tuned out the mayor's whole speech? Not that it would have been anything interesting. About as interesting as the girl who stepped out of the sixteen-year-old section, with no sign of surprise other than a raised eyebrow. The girl let out a deep sigh and started walking toward the stage, her cream-colored dress bouncing up and down a little with every step, making Tobiah dizzy.

She was tall and thin, with long, red hair, a round face, and freckles. She smiled a little at Tobiah and Crispin as she took the stage. Tobiah smiled back lazily, almost amused. _Already happy about dying. That's good. Certainly better than being miserable about living._

"Radiance Allor!"

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. The name sounded vaguely familiar. And the girl who stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section looked familiar, as well – tall and slender, long-legged, dimpled. Fair skin and long, brown hair. She was wearing a plain grey, wool dress and brown boots – not her usual attire, so it took him a moment to place her. But then she looked up, her chocolate brown eyes brimming with tears, and he recognized her.

If she recognized him, it didn't show. She hadn't known him as Tobiah Clement, District Nine's first Victor. She'd simply known him as a customer – one who happened to be missing a hand but paid extremely well. He'd told her he lost the hand in a factory accident. She'd told him she was nineteen.

Apparently, they were both liars.

She was crying as she took her place next to the other girl, who stood awkwardly beside her but made no move to comfort her. _Someone should_. Before he knew it, Tobiah was on his feet – but then he was on the ground, too dizzy even to stand properly. Both girls stepped away from him, disgusted.

He couldn't exactly blame them.

Crispin helped him back into his chair as Maddie called out the last name. "Dennar Viesennor!"

No sooner had the name left her lips than a boy in a dark green shirt and khaki pants stepped out of the fourteen-year-old section, wasting no time as he walked briskly to the stage. He was small and skinny, but his dark hair was neatly combed, his face and outfit perfectly clean, his dark brown eyes free of tears.

He took his place onstage, smiling sadly – but at his district partners, not the audience. Without once glancing at the cameras, he whispered something to Radiance, who was still crying, and drew her into a hug. She obliged, and was soon sobbing into his shoulder. He looked startled for a moment but held her tightly nonetheless, only letting go when they were instructed to shake hands and get on with it.

Tobiah watched them leave. He knew he should feel bad. He should feel bad that, in all likelihood, all three of them were going to their deaths. He should feel bad that he was going to be far too drunk to be of much use once they were on the train. He should feel bad that he didn't care.

But he didn't. He didn't feel bad. And he didn't care – not really. They were going to die either way, so what was the point in getting attached, in getting worked up about it? Why bother trying, year after year after year, when it was all for nothing? Even if they made it home, their lives would be miserable.

Why work his heart out for that?

"Want anyone this year?" Crispin asked, more out of habit than out of an expectation that this would be the year Tobiah would pull it together and actually be of any use.

Tobiah shook his head. "You've got this covered, Crispy. Me, I'm just along for the ride."

That was more than enough for him to worry about.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16**

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Asteria smiled, staring off into space, trying to block out what was happening. It usually worked. As long as she appeared blissful and clueless, most people left her alone. Even her mother.

Especially her mother.

After all, why yell at someone who just smiles back? Why take her anger out on someone who would just stand there and take it with a spacey smile, letting the words flow right off her, right over her, but never through her.

Asteria laughed a little, though there was no one there to hear. They had come and gone – her mother and father, her friend Divane, a few others from school. One had said that she would miss her. She'd already given her up for dead.

Maybe she was right. But it wouldn't help to cry about it. She'd learned enough to know that crying only made things worse – only made people more upset, made it harder to think, harder to react. And crying attracted people. It attracted sympathy, sure, but it also attracted predators, as surely as a mouse's whiskers twitching in the fields attracted the hawks from above.

She didn't want to be a mouse.

But then what animal was she? She certainly wasn't one of the hawks. No, a hawk would have taken advantage of the fact that the other girl had been crying, that the boy had tried to comfort her. A hawk would have made an effort to look like the strong one of the batch.

But she wasn't the strong one. She wasn't a predator. And she wasn't the prey. She was somewhere in between. Or in the background. Unnoticed by both. Unseen. Hidden – maybe hidden underground. Like a prairie dog.

Yes. Yes, that was it. She had seen them sometimes – scurrying around the fields, darting into their tunnels when danger was near. Curious. Playful. Frantic.

Yes, she was a prairie dog. Her smile was her tunnel – her protection from the outside world. And it had served her well so far. It had kept her safe.

But how long would that last?

* * *

**Radiance Allor, 17**

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Radiance closed her eyes. Why shouldn't they? Everyone else did. The girls at school, the people on the streets. Even her customers – the ones who were supposed to be enjoying themselves. They were enjoying the pleasure, not _her_. They ignored her. And she ignored them.

It was better that way.

This was no different. Just another bad night. Another nightmare. Another horror to get through and move on, because there was no other option.

Or maybe because she deserved it.

Radiance wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She _did_ deserve it. It was her fault. She had left the fireplace burning. That was what had started the fire – the fire that had claimed her mother's life, destroyed their house, thrust them all into poverty. And she did her part – her job paid well – but it still wasn't enough to make up for that moment of carelessness.

Nothing would ever be enough.

So she paid the price every night. Because she deserved it. Because her family needed it. Because how else was she supposed to earn money? Her job paid better than working in the fields, better than working in the factories. And what had it cost her?

Only her pride.

A small price to pay. A small price to allow her family to eat. Tears came to her eyes again. What would they do now – now that she would probably never come back?

But if she did…

They would never want for anything again. Her father would never have to work again. She would never have to sell herself again. Her little brother would never know the shame or the despair that she had.

But only if she won.

Radiance buried her face in her hands again. Wishful thinking. What chance did she have, in the end? She wasn't strong, wasn't fast, wasn't skilled. In fact, the only thing she really had going for her was that most people would probably ignore her.

But how long would that last?

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14**

He couldn't just ignore them.

Dennar held Tess' hand a little tighter. The old woman gazed down at him with a sad smile that mirrored his own. "I know it's hard for you, sweetie," she said kindly. "But you can't help them. Not really. You have to help yourself."

Dennar nodded. She was right. It was hard. All his life, he'd tried to help people. Listening to their problems. Helping them through the hard times. Spending time with the elderly or the dying. That was how he had met Tess. She was dying – slowly, painfully – but she never let on. Never complained. He had always admired that about her.

He was trying to do the same. Not complaining. Not fussing. Just carrying on, because that was what they needed. He needed to be strong for them – for his parents, for his sister, for his friends. He had promised them he would try – try to come back.

And he couldn't do that if he was trying to help everyone else.

But how could he just ignore them? And what was the harm in trying to comfort them a little? It wasn't as if he was just going to sit back and let them kill him, but the Games hadn't even started yet. Where was the harm in comforting one of his district partners who wasn't taking it quite so well?

No harm. No harm yet.

He could wait. _Later. _Later, he would stop – stop caring, stop worrying about how they felt, how he could make them feel better. But not yet. For now, he would care. He would listen. He would help.

Because without that, who was he?

Dennar gave Tess one last hug. Probably the last, either way. She was dying. There was a good chance that he was, too. No sense in lying about it – either of them.

"Take care of yourself," Dennar said quietly, knowing full well that she probably wouldn't. She still worked too hard, still gave everything she could, even though she had so little time left.

And he would do the same. Right up to the end. He would make the best of whatever time he had left. He would make it worth something.

But how long would that last?

* * *

"_You can't deal with problems by pretending they don't exist."_


	11. District Ten: Voice

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Writing was temporarily delayed this weekend due to the fact that _I got a cat! _Yes, that's right. The sweetheart in my picture is my little baby. Her name's Mirage, and she's adorable.

Now I can blame typos on her tendency to walk across my keyboard while I'm typing.

Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _SpaceAgeDino_, _mikitty bast_, and _Flintlightning_ for Grace, Corvo, and Hogan, respectively.

* * *

**District Ten Reaping  
****Voice**

* * *

**Glenn Chester, 36  
****Victor of the 4****th**** Hunger Games**

He wished he didn't have to put her through this.

Glenn shook his head as he lifted Tess into her wheelchair. She sat there, unmoving, as he finished his muffin and stuffed another into his pocket for later. Part of him wished he could simply leave her at home during the Games. Returning to the Capitol every year surely wasn't helping her condition, and it wasn't as if she was any help to the tributes.

But he couldn't. The Capitol insisted that both of them be there – at least until they had another mentor to replace her. Two tributes, two mentors. Except this year. This year, he would have three tributes – and still no help. But he brought her along every year, anyway, because that was what the Capitol wanted. And what the Capitol wanted, the Capitol got.

Besides, if he left her here, in District Ten, who would take care of her?

Not her family, certainly. To them, she was dead. Gone, as if she had never come back from the Games at all. Which wasn't all that far from the truth. Her mind had never truly returned with her to District Ten. Ever since watching the highlights of her Games, she had been almost completely unresponsive. She would eat. Sleep. Sometimes she would cry. But she couldn't feed herself. Couldn't dress herself. She was completely dependent on him, because he was the only one willing to take care of her.

It wasn't supposed to be his job. He was her mentor, not her caretaker. But, when her family turned her away, he couldn't simply leave her to die in another house in Victors' Village, uncared for, unloved. So he had taken her in, and, for the past eight years, he had cared for her as if she were his own daughter.

It was chilly out, so he wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before they headed to the square. The teenagers were huddled together for warmth, or maybe out of fear. Not that he blamed them one bit. He'd been just as afraid – maybe even more so.

Tess hadn't been afraid. She'd marched right up to the stage, radiating confidence and charm. That confidence had gotten her through the Games, but then it had failed her. She'd faced the Games head-on, but her mind had retreated from the aftermath, hiding deep inside.

He had plenty of experience with hiding, of course. During his own Games, Glenn had hidden in a swamp while the other tributes slaughtered each other. Never really expecting to survive – just trying to make it for one more day, and then another. Then, on the fifteenth day, a voice had proclaimed him the victor. He'd never fought. Never killed. It was the most disappointing finale in the history of the Games.

Except to him, of course. He was anything but disappointed to be alive. And while Tess had left the Games only to retreat into her own world, years of being a mentor had brought him out of his own shell. He wasn't the most well-known victor. He wasn't the strongest or the fastest or the cleverest. But he was alive. And he would always be grateful for that.

He finished his second muffin as they reached the stage. Gently, he lifted Tess from her wheelchair and carried her up the steps, placing her carefully in one of the chairs reserved for them onstage. Then he plopped into his own chair, catching his breath and considering whether he should resubmit his request for a ramp leading up to the stage.

Their escort, Hillary Walker, flashed him a tired smile, nodding at Tess. Glenn smiled back, grateful she hadn't been transferred to another district. Hillary had been there since Tess' Games, and had been more than willing to help him care for his fellow mentor during the festivities. In fact, Glenn suspected that was part of the reason she had stayed with District Ten for so long: she didn't want to leave Tess in anyone else's hands.

The Capitolites may have seemed cold-blooded to some, but they certainly did get attached to their victors.

And, despite her current state, that's what Tess was: a victor. So maybe it was good that she was there – a reminder to the Capitol of the toll the Games actually took. The price – mental and physical – that the victors actually paid.

Glenn shook the thought from his head. He was getting philosophical. It was a price he hadn't paid, after all. Aside from hunger, his Games had taken no physical toll. He had no blood on his hands, no deaths on his conscience. He was the least qualified person to speculate about the price of being a victor.

Yet speculate he did, because that was what kept him from going insane after all this time. Thinking and writing. Every year, he chronicled the tributes – their memories, their feelings, anything they were willing to share. And, after the Games, anything their families were willing to share. Most of the families were more than willing, grateful that their children would be remembered. A few had refused him, just as a few tributes had, saying that they'd rather return and share those memories themselves. And he understood that. But the reality was that most of them hadn't. And the only one who had … she hadn't shared anything in years.

The mayor finished his speech, and Hillary took her place by the reaping bowl. Turning her tired smile towards the crowd, she reached into the bowl and drew the first name her fingers found. "Hogan Graham!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a large boy in a white collared shirt, black suit, and tie. He was tall and muscular, with dark skin, close-cropped black hair, and dark brown eyes. He stood there for a moment, shocked, but, as Glenn watched, the shock on his face turned to anger. Rage. His hands clenched into fists, his whole body tense.

_Don't fight now. Save it for the Games._

And he didn't lash out. Didn't fight. He simply stormed up to the stage, furious. Glaring at Hillary, at Glenn and Tess, at the audience. Finally, he turned towards the cameras and opened his mouth, probably about to say something. But, before he could, Glenn was at his side, reaching for his hand, grinning and pumping his arm up and down. Drawing the cameras' attention. Playing the fool.

Hogan glared. "What are you doing?"

_Keeping you from saying something you'll regret later. _"Welcoming you! Congratulations, Hogan!" He turned to Hillary. "Sorry about that; couldn't contain my excitement. Please, do go on."

Hillary smiled gratefully and returned to her job. Glenn returned to his seat, content, as she read off the next name. "Corvo Arion!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a baggy black sweater and faded black pants. The boy stood perfectly still, staring up at the stage, his eyes drifting from Glenn and Tess to Hillary to Hogan and back again. Finally, the Peacekeepers began to make their way towards him, but, even as they did, the boy began to move, walking slowly towards the stage, frowning, his bony face pale and tense.

At last, he reached the stage and stood silently beside his district partner, biting down on his lip, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check. He was about average height, with dark hair and even darker eyes that seemed to stare right through Glenn. Not wanting to appear to be favoring one of his tributes, Glenn leapt up and repeated his performance, pumping Corvo's arm enthusiastically until the boy pulled away firmly, unamused at being welcomed to what might very well be his death.

Glenn didn't blame him one bit.

"Grace Sawyer!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a faded leather jacket, well-worn jeans, and a muddy pair of hiking boots. She swallowed hard, but began walking, taking small, stiff steps, her face pale and frightened. Glenn could hear her breathing heavily, trying to calm herself, as she slowly made her way up the steps.

She was about average height for her age and rather stocky, but, after to the two boys, she looked small. Her brown hair was pulled back in a bun, her brown eyes wide with barely-contained fear. But before she took her place beside her district partners, she held out her hand to Glenn, who was already standing, ready to shake it, which he did – just as heartily as he had for the other two. The girl finally smiled a little – a shaky smile, but a genuine one – as she turned to her two district partners and offered a handshake to first one, and then the other. Then the boys shook hands, and the cameras switched off.

Glenn watched as the three of them were led away, then, gently, lifted Tess and carried her down the stairs, as well. Before he could leave, though, Hillary hurried over to join him. "Thanks," she said gratefully. "For what you did up there – distracting them."

Glenn shrugged. "It's what I'm here for."

Hillary shook her head. "I'm pretty sure making a fool of yourself isn't in the job description."

"It is if it helps them. That's not just _in_ the job description; it _is_ the job description: I'm here to help." He smiled as he clapped Hillary on the back.

"And you are very, very welcome."

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14**

_We are one._

Grace closed her eyes as she held her family close, letting the words flow through her. Words that were etched in her mind, buried deep in her heart. Words that had given her comfort in the past. Words that had always reassured her, a promise that she wasn't alone.

But she felt alone now.

And that was the only way she would return: alone. No matter what she had been told, what she had been taught, what she had believed all these years, there was only one way to make it out of the Games alive: She would have to fight. She would have to kill.

_We are one_.

Grace squeezed her eyes tightly. One of the first things she had been taught – one of her family's closest-held beliefs – was that all life was precious. All life was dear to the One. All life was to be respected and preserved.

But didn't that include her life?

If the choice was between her life and another's, would it be wrong to choose hers? No. No, she couldn't imagine that it would be wrong to fight for her own life as strongly as she would for someone else's.

Grace gripped her father's hand tightly, her voice barely above a whisper, speaking the only thing that came to her mind. The only words she could find. "_Here, gathered together in common cause_—"

Her parents joined in. "_We agree to recognize this singular truth and this singular rule: that we must be kind to one another."_

Kind. Compassionate. How could she be that if she wanted to survive?

_"Because each voice enriches us and ennobles us, and each voice lost diminishes us."_

Each voice. Thirty-six voices, and thirty-five of them would be lost – one changed forever. Which one would be hers?

_"We are the voice of the Universe. The soul of Creation. The Fire that will light the way to a better future."_

A better future. Words. Maybe there would be a better future – someday. But would she live to see it?

_"We are one. We are One."_

The Peacekeeper's knock echoed through the room, and her parents rose to leave. Grace threw her arms around her father. "If I don't see you again…"

Her father held her close. "_If I don't see you again here, I will see you in a little while, in the place where no shadows fall._"

"_Where no shadows fall_," Grace repeated, letting go at last. She wasn't quite sure what that even meant – she never had been.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that she would find out soon.

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17**

He was alone.

Corvo stared at the door. Jessamine had come and gone. He wasn't really expecting anyone else. Maybe a few of the others from the orphanage, but it wouldn't really surprise him if they didn't come. He'd always been more of a loner, and they knew it. No family. Few friends. No one who would really miss him.

Just as he'd resigned himself to spending the rest of the time allotted for goodbyes alone, the door opened once more, revealing a man in a Peacekeeper's uniform. At first, Corvo thought maybe he had lost track of the time. Maybe it was time to leave already.

But the Peacekeeper who had come was Tyrone. Corvo smiled a little as his friend took a seat beside him. A long time ago – it seemed like a lifetime – Corvo had dreamed of becoming a Peacekeeper, as well. Dreamed of fighting for justice on the streets of District Ten.

But that was just a dream – an old dream, long gone. Because most Peacekeepers weren't interested in justice. Tyrone was one of the good ones, but even he could be bought, swayed, manipulated. The system was corrupt. If there was any justice to be found – true justice – it lay elsewhere.

Still, he had to admit that Tyrone had been helpful. He'd taken Corvo under his wing, taught him everything he knew. The long nights that Corvo had spent in the shadows of District Ten's underbelly, sneaking from shadow to shadow, leaping from rooftop to rooftop – Tyrone had a hand in all that. And, for that, Corvo would always be grateful.

Tyrone shifted uncomfortably. "I just want you to know … if you don't make it back … I'll find them."

Corvo nodded. He knew who Tyrone was talking about. The criminals who had murdered his parents – the ones he had been searching for since he was young. "Thanks," Corvo agreed. "But I'd rather find them myself."

Tyrone smiled a little. That was what he'd wanted to hear. What he'd come hoping to hear: that Corvo wasn't going to just give up. And he wouldn't. He couldn't. He didn't have it in him to simply roll over and die.

But he wasn't kidding himself, either. There was always a chance – a chance that he wouldn't be the one to come home. Part of him hoped that Tyrone would be up to the task, if that was the case.

But part of him still hoped that he wouldn't have to be.

* * *

**Hogan Graham, 18**

They would be alone.

Hogan shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. They wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't let that happen. They were counting on him, after all. His parents. His little sisters. He couldn't leave them.

It was different for the others – he could tell. Their families – if they even had them – didn't depend on them for survival. But ever since his father's accident, he'd been his family's main provider.

He'd never intended to be. Never wanted them to depend on him. His father had always been the provider, supplementing his usual income with his winnings from a street fighting club. Until he'd been injured in the fields. Unable to fight.

So Hogan had taken his place. His father had taught him everything he knew, and, soon, he was winning nearly every match. Bringing in even more money than his father head. They still weren't well off, but, along with their daily wages from the fields, it had always been enough to get by.

Until now.

Without him, what would they do? His father couldn't work. Weeden and Willow were eight and six – too young to be of much help, but old enough to eat their fair share. His mother worked hard, but, without him to help her, would she be able to get by?

No. No, she wouldn't have to. He would make sure of that. It was just another fight, in the end, and he'd won his fair share.

But he'd never killed.

Hogan shook the thought from his head. How much different could it be? Beating an opponent into submission or killing them – what was the difference, in the end? He'd always enjoyed the thrill of the fight. Wouldn't that rush be even stronger if his life was truly on the line?

But not just his life. The lives of his family. They were depending on him. And if he made it home, they'd never have to depend on anyone ever again.

Hogan fingered the coin in his hands – the coin he'd won in his very first match. Winners were rewarded with a large sum, while the loser only got one coin to show for his effort. He'd won one coin that night. But he'd kept it, as a reminder – a reminder of the only fight he'd ever lost.

Now it was a reminder that this one couldn't end the same way.

* * *

"_Each voice enriches us and ennobles us, and each voice lost diminishes us."_


	12. District Eleven: Defined

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _The Lunar Lioness_, _hollowman96_, and _BamItsTyler _for Lynher, Jazz, and Bakaari, respectively.

* * *

**District Eleven Reaping  
****Defined**

* * *

**Elijah Whitaker, 17  
****Victor of the 24****th**** Hunger Games**

He still wasn't used to seeing them happy.

Elijah smiled. Looking around the house, no one would have been able to guess that it was reaping day. His younger brothers and sisters – all four of them – were still stuffing their faces with a breakfast that would have been considered beyond compare only a year ago. The older three showed a little bit more restraint, as did his parents, but the fact remained that, a year after his own reaping, this was a day of gratitude rather than fear.

Like many large families in District Eleven, they had been on the brink of starvation a year ago, despite the five of them who had been eligible for the reaping taking out tesserae. A year ago, they had been living in a one-room shack, along with his four grandparents and several cousins. A year ago, he had been just another Whitaker boy. Just another mouth to feed.

Now they had everything they could want. Now they had a house that was large enough for all of them – and then some. Now they had enough food to last a lifetime. Now they would never have to work long hours in the fields again. The little ones would never have to beg again. The older ones would never have to go hungry so that the younger ones could have a scrap of bread. They had everything.

And he was responsible for it.

He had done this. Him. He had made this possible – his family's happiness.

And all it had cost was the lives of twenty-three other teenagers.

Elijah shook the thought from his head. Yes, he had killed. He was responsible for three of the dead. The boys from Three and Eight and the girl from Six. They were dead. He had killed them. But, if he hadn't, how many of his own siblings would be dead from hunger now?

Weren't their lives worth as much as those three?

Yes. Yes, it was worth it. Coming home, seeing them like this – well-fed, clean, happy – it was worth every second he had spent in the arena. He had done terrible things, but it was over. Their happiness, their joy – this would last a lifetime.

And they were grateful. To him. That had taken some getting used to. Not that they had ever intentionally ignored him, but, growing up in such a large family, it was easy to feel overlooked. Overshadowed. Unappreciated. Now when he looked in their eyes, he saw nothing but appreciation. Even pride.

And why not? He wasn't proud of the means, but he could be proud of the results. Maybe it was impossible to separate the two, in the end, but the one was certainly worth the other.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts – and breakfast. After knocking once more, Ivy entered uninvited. "Elijah, there you are! We should go soon." She was smiling – a rare thing, usually reserved for him. Her one success. The one tribute, after all these years, who had finally come home.

He would be lying if he said that didn't feel good.

They headed to the square together – his family and Ivy. In the last year, they'd sort of adopted her – the cranky aunt whom all the kids tried to warm up to, anyway. It had taken a while, but she had come around. She'd never had a family, something he'd always taken for granted. He was happy to share his.

They all took their places: Winnona and Bryden with his parents and the other adults, along with Hollie and Edsel, too young for the reaping; Aislinn with the eighteen-year-olds; Jaxon with the fifteen-year-olds, and Marion with the fourteen-year-olds. Elijah took his own place next to Ivy onstage, a wave of dread coursing through him at last. Not for himself, but for his family. For the three of them still in danger.

They had stopped taking tesserae, of course, after he won. They were as safe as they could get. It was Aislinn's last year. But still … it could be them. It could be any of them.

No one was really safe.

Elijah felt a hand on his shoulder. Ivy squeezed gently. Trying to be reassuring. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing either of them could do to protect his family. Nothing except try their hardest if the worst happened.

It wouldn't. There were hundreds – thousands – of other children. The odds were … well, low, certainly. Aislinn would know exactly what they were. Every year, she went through and calculated. Estimated. Determined exactly how bad their chances were.

Last year, she had been right.

But not this year. Not this year.

Elijah almost thought he saw a smile on Ivy's face as the mayor Mayor Haimish read their names. _Their _names. Two of them, for the first time. For the first time, she wouldn't be going back to the Capitol alone. She had warned him that it would be hard, of course, but she had also made it abundantly clear that she was grateful not to be alone.

Yet another person who was grateful to him.

District Eleven's escort, Merick Cason, grinned as he approached the reaping bowl. Elijah held his breath. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion. _Anyone else – _anyone _– and he would be … well, not _happy_, but certainly relieved.

_Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Bakaari Reeves!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white t-shirt under a blue shirt, only partway buttoned, khakis, and a flat blue cap. He was tall and muscular, dark-skinned and hard-eyed, intimidating even from a distance. He was muttering under his breath as he made his way towards the stage.

But, before he made it there, a girl ran up out of the twelve-year-old section and threw her arms around him. Another followed, and then another – both from outside the reaping area. The Peacekeepers immediately intervened, tearing the girls away, but the boy fought back, not letting go of them until one of the Peacekeepers struck him in the temple. The Peacekeepers dragged him to the stage – his cap knocked off, his head bleeding – and shoved him down hard in front of Ivy and Elijah.

The boy quickly rose to his feet, and, for a moment, Elijah thought he might start fighting again. But, after collecting himself, he simply stood there, listening as the youngest girl continued to shout for him to come back.

Elijah fought back a sinking feeling in his stomach. Those girls – so much like his own little sisters. And the boy was his age. He wasn't Elijah's brother, but he was _somebody's _brother. He had people counting on him to come home, just as Elijah had.

But so many of the tributes did. And only one of them could come home.

Elijah turned his attention back to Merick as he reached into the reaping bowl again, undeterred by the boy's display. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Jazz Farnahm!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted again, this time for a girl in a white, short-sleeve, button-down shirt and black slacks. For a moment, the shock was obvious on her face, but, after a moment, her face hardened, and it was gone. She walked quickly to the stage – no younger siblings clinging to her, no fighting, no fuss.

She was almost as tall as the boy and almost as muscular, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, with her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She took her place by her district partner, acknowledging neither him nor anyone else. Ivy nodded a little, which caught Elijah by surprise. Was this how she had been at her own reaping?

No. No, he'd almost forgotten: she had volunteered. She'd asked to be sent to the Games. To her possible death. No matter what front this girl was putting up, she didn't want to be here any more than he had. But did Ivy understand that?

Elijah shook the thought from his head. Of course she did. She'd been a mentor longer than he'd been alive; it wasn't his place to second-guess her. If she thought putting up a tough front would be good for the girl, then he would have her back.

She'd had his, after all.

Merick turned back to the reaping bowl. One more. One more name, and his family would be safe for another year – and Aislinn would be safe forever. One more. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Lynher Palmieri!"

It took all of Elijah's effort not to look relieved on his family's behalf. Aislinn was safe. He almost smiled.

Almost.

And, almost immediately, he scolded himself, because he realized the name was familiar.

The sixteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a grey shirt, black slacks, and well-worn shoes. A boy Elijah recognized from the fields. He was about average height, dark-skinned, with shaved black hair. He had a few muscles, but certainly nothing impressive compared to the other two. After staring in shock for a moment, he began walking slowly towards the stage.

As he passed the eighteen-year-old section, however, he stopped for a moment to whisper something to another boy, who nodded quickly. Before the Peacekeepers could step forward, however, the boy kept walking, his warm brown eyes full of tears as he finally took his place beside his two district partners. "Well, we've just got the best luck, don't we," he remarked – not out of bitterness, Elijah knew, but simply out of a need to say _something_.

The other two didn't acknowledge his remark, their expressions cold even when they were reminded to shake hands. They had already shut him out.

Of course they had. They were on their way to a fight to the death. But Elijah knew that wouldn't stop Lynher from trying to talk to them, trying to connect – if only for a little while. As the three of them were led away, Elijah gave Lynher what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Lynher smiled back shakily.

"You know him," Ivy remarked once they were gone.

Elijah nodded, though it hadn't been a question. "Not very well, but … yeah, we've met."

Ivy nodded understandingly. "It's never easy – knowing one of your tributes. I can take him, if you'd rather not deal with—"

Elijah shook his head. "No. No, I'll mentor him."

"Good choice," muttered a voice from behind him. The mayor, lingering onstage after everyone else had gone.

"Why?" Elijah asked. "You think he's got the best chance?"

"No, but he'll be less of a handful for your first year of mentoring. The girl's a bully – has two younger siblings she abuses to vent her frustration because she's terribly lonely. Wonder why. The boy's a bit better, but he's desperate – those girls at the reaping rely on him for everything, and he'll do whatever he thinks is necessary to get back to them. But that might not be what you think is the best way. The other boy, now, he'll listen to you. Maybe too much. Probably too much. But that's what you need for your first year, really – someone who'll get killed following your advice, so that next year you'll do better."

Elijah blinked. Ivy glared. "Really, Mycr? It's his first year. Play nice."

The mayor shrugged. "Why? The Gamemakers won't. They don't care that it's his first year. They won't go easy on a tribute just because his mentor's fresh out of the Games himself. Might as well accept that, kid."

Elijah flushed. No one had called him 'kid' since he'd won the Games last year. "I'm not a kid! I'm—"

"Elijah Whitaker, Victor of the 24th Annual Hunger Games. And congratulations for that. But that doesn't change the fact that you're still hungry – hungry for love and attention. You've got the appreciation, the respect, and you think that's enough, but it only makes you crave more."

"I don't need—"

"Anyone else's approval? Of course you do. We all do. We all need the audience, the spotlight, the applause. It's why we do what we do." He shook his head sadly. "Believe me, I know."

Ivy sighed. "Myrc, this isn't about your brother."

The mayor scoffed. "Of course it is. It always is." He shook his head. "Maybe it always was." He turned to go, but then remarked, quietly, "Maybe that's what he would have wanted."

Ivy shook her head, then turned to Elijah. "Don't mind him. He's always like that. Usually right, too, in the end, but it doesn't help to dwell on that ahead of time. You take Lynher; I'll take the other two."

"You sure?" She'd mentored two tributes by herself for more than twenty years; he had figured she might ask him to take two.

"I'm sure. It's your first year, and the first year is hard enough without having to worry about two tributes at once."

"You did it."

"I sure did. Which is why I know how hard it would be for you. I'll take the other two."

"Thank you."

Ivy put a hand on his shoulder. "No, thank _you_. For being here."

Elijah smiled a little. He hadn't done it for her, of course – no more than he had done it for the spotlight, the applause. Relieving her of the burden of mentoring alone hadn't even crossed his mind during the Games. But that didn't matter. He was here now.

And he wouldn't let her down.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16**

He hadn't expected Tamar to come.

Lynher could feel tears in his eyes once more. Tamar, his oldest brother, had left home a year ago and hadn't spoken to him – or anyone in their family – since. But he'd had to see him one last time. So, before joining the others onstage, Lynher had found Malvern in the crowd and asked him to find their brother – before it was too late.

Because, more likely than not, it _would_ be the last time he saw them. Not that he wouldn't try, of course. But even his two district partners were both older and stronger than him. And the other districts … no, he didn't even want to think about the other districts yet.

Some of them would be younger than him, of course. But that just made it even worse. Lynher swallowed hard, trying to picture the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who might be his competition. Trying to imagine killing them. Even the thought made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want to kill little kids.

He didn't want to kill _anyone_.

"It's okay," he repeated again, hugging his mother tightly. "It's okay. It'll be okay." It was better than saying nothing. The silence – the pitying looks, the quiet sobbing – was unbearable. Words were better, even if they were lies.

And of course it was a lie. Either way, it would never be 'okay.' Dying wasn't _okay_. And killing wasn't _okay_. Nothing would ever be _okay_ again.

And yet … Elijah seemed to be doing okay. They'd worked in the fields together, before Elijah was reaped. They had never been close, but it was something. They had seen each other a few times since Elijah had returned, and, while he seemed different, he didn't seem … broken. Not like so many of the other victors.

And if Elijah could do it, maybe he could, too.

Lynher put on a smile for his family. "It's okay. You just watch. We'll be the second district with back-to-back victors."

His parents smiled. Malvern smiled. Even Tamar smiled. And that was worth the lie – if that was, in fact, what it turned out to be. Seeing his family like this – together again, the way they should be – it was almost worth being reaped. If this was what it took to bring them together again, maybe it was worth it.

And he wouldn't let them down.

* * *

**Bakaari Reeves, 17**

They still didn't want to let go.

Bakaari held his three little sisters close, wishing he had something comforting to say. Wishing he could say that he would be back, that he would be coming home soon, that he would win for them. Of course he would try, but there were no guarantees. He couldn't make that promise, only for them to have their hearts broken when he couldn't hold up his end of the bargain. It might make them feel better for a moment, but what about later?

He couldn't do that to them.

So he said nothing. But that was all right. Silence was better than a lie. Silence wasn't a promise – one way or the other. They all knew he would do his best, fight his hardest. It didn't need saying.

But something else did.

Gently, Bakaari freed himself from the girls' arms, then, one by one, looked them each in the eye. "I love you," he said softly to each of them in turn, wrapping each of the girls in one last hug. First Willow, the oldest. Then Piper. Then little Ivy, the youngest, only six years old. Then, quietly, deliberately, he opened the door himself and watched them leave.

He had realized, at the reaping, that he would want it to be that way. Wanted it to be his choice when to let them leave, rather than having them torn away again. He wanted to say goodbye on his own terms, to have this one last moment that was under his control.

Because so few things were. So few things had ever been. His father's death from malnutrition. His mother's slow wasting away from grief. Being unable to properly care for the three little girls who meant everything to him. But this – this last moment – this was his. He wouldn't let their last memories of him be of the Peacekeepers tearing them apart, kicking and screaming. If he could let go, then maybe they could, as well.

Bakaari clenched his fists tightly. He would do his best, of course, to see that they didn't have to. They had already been through so much. Already lost so much. They couldn't lose him, too. So he would fight. He would kill. Whatever he had to do, he would do – for them.

He wouldn't let them down.

* * *

**Jazz Farnahm, 17**

They hadn't come.

Jazz watched as her mother and father left, leaving the room bleak and empty. She kicked a chair in frustration. The little brats hadn't even come.

Jazz shook her head, scoffing at her own flash of sentimentality. Of course they hadn't come. Why would they? They were siblings, sure, but it wasn't as if they were close. As if she could ever be that close to an idiot and a sniveling weakling. They didn't care about her; they were scared of her. That had always been better. That was the way she wanted it.

But it still felt lonely.

Jazz sat down again, waiting in silence for the Peacekeepers to decide her time was over. Lonely was nothing new. Frustrated was nothing new. But she'd always had someone to take it out on. Someone at school, or one of her siblings at home. Usually Nuto.

Jazz scoffed. No wonder he hadn't come; she would probably have taken her frustration out on him again. And no wonder Rita hadn't come, when Jazz would probably have yelled at her, taking her anger out on the only person available.

No wonder they hadn't come.

Still, a part of her wished they had. Wished she could see them again. Wished she could say something. She wasn't even sure what, but for them to rob her of that, to scorn her now, to choose _now_ of all times to defy her by not coming – it was unthinkable.

Now there was no one.

But it wouldn't last long. Soon, she'd be surrounded by people again.

People who wanted to kill her.

No. No, most of them wouldn't _want_ to. Just like she didn't _want_ to kill them. Not really. Sure, she'd picked fights before, but actually _killing _someone? That was different. When she beat someone up, it was mostly for the pleasure of the fear in their eyes every time they saw her. The fear that said they knew she could do it again.

But the dead wouldn't look at her like that.

Jazz shook the thought from her head. No, she didn't _want_ to kill. But she would. She would have to. Maybe her life here wasn't great. Maybe it was nothing special. But it was hers. And she wasn't about to let that go without a fight.

She wouldn't let herself down.

* * *

"_All sentient beings are best defined by their capacity and their need for love."_


	13. District Twelve: Brief

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Now that we've made it through the reapings, there's a poll on my profile where you can vote for your favorite tributes. Choose as many as you like, and feel free to vote for your own; just make sure to let me know who _else_ you like, too. (Because if, out of thirty-six tributes, the only one you like is your own, I'm doing something wrong.) This poll will be up until the end of the train rides, so if you'd like to wait until you see a little more of our tributes, that's perfectly fine, as well.

Also, now that you've met all the tributes, if you have any alliances in mind, let me know. I may not be able to accommodate everyone, but I'll try my best, especially if a request is mutual.

Lastly, thank you to _Starry Infinities_, _bobothebear_, and _Lupus Overkill _for Blythe, Brennan, and Francis, respectively.

* * *

**District Twelve Reaping  
****Brief**

* * *

**Silas Grisom, 49  
****Capitol Mentor**

No one ever saw their potential.

Silas leaned back in his chair onstage, taking in the sight that would move most people to either pity or disgust, either compassion or contempt. District Twelve. The smallest, poorest, victorless district. And yet so rich – rich in potential, rich in desperation, rich in character.

How could he refuse?

Several other people had, he knew. He hadn't been anyone's first choice for this position. A trial lawyer – however experienced – was hardly qualified to prepare children for a fight to the death. Over the years, they had passed him over – for soldiers, survival experts, strategists.

But he was patient. Now, finally, when all of their other options had failed – most resigning after a year, some lasting two – now they had turned to him.

And he wouldn't fail.

Oh, he might fail this year. Or the next. That was to be expected. In twenty-four years, only two mentors had brought home a tribute their very first year. And the first was a given; _someone _had to bring a tribute home the first year, and Adonias had been lucky enough to be mentoring Vester, the Capitol favorite. Then there was District Nine, the only district with back-to-back victors. But that had been due to Crispin's cleverness, certainly not Tobiah's mentoring skills.

So of course he would try, but he wasn't really expecting to succeed this year. But that wouldn't drive him away, as it had so many of the others. Silas was no stranger to failure. Winning or losing wasn't the point; the point was to put on a good show. As long as he did that, Silas was confident they would let him mentor District Twelve as long as he had the stomach for it.

And he had a strong stomach.

He had to, with everything he'd seen after the rebellion. The interrogations. The beatings. The torture. All part of the process of 'justice' in the Capitol – at least as far as rebels were concerned. And, at first, that was exactly what most of his clients had been. The trials were mostly for show – if the Capitol wanted someone executed, that's exactly what they would get – but, occasionally, he was able to do some good. Occasionally, the Capitol would agree to pardon the criminals' families – particularly their children – if they would confess their crimes, denounce their actions, perhaps name a few of their associates.

That was how he had saved the Ichihara children all those years ago. A boy and a girl, destined to pay the price for their parents' actions – until he had stepped in, convinced those in power to let him offer a deal. The parents had cracked immediately at the offer of their children's safety, and had given the names of several other key rebels in District Seven. All to save the lives of a girl who had already gone mad from the Capitol's torture and a boy who would meet his fate, anyway, in the Games. He hadn't saved the boy; he had only postponed the inevitable for ten years.

But those were ten years that Kaji Ichihara wouldn't have had without him.

Besides, that was all that anyone was doing, in the end: postponing the inevitable. Even in the Capitol, with all their obsession with youth and good looks, the best surgeons and magicians had yet to find a permanent cure for death. They could delay it. They could make it painless. But, in the end, death always had its say.

Always.

Maybe that was life's greatest lesson, in the end: that, no matter how hard anyone tried – no matter how strong or how intelligent or how brave they were – eventually they lost. The sooner people recognized that, the more they could make of the little, fleeting time they had left. The more they could focus on creating something that _would_ last.

That was why he was here, after all. Why he hadn't been able to turn down the chance to mentor the only victorless district. For the past twenty-five years, he'd made a name for himself as a lawyer who was willing to take any case. Willing to defend anyone, no matter how heinous. He'd lost more cases than he'd won, sacrificed more lives than he'd saved, but he'd been part of history.

And that's what the Games were: a chance to be part of history. To be part of something bigger. To tell a story, put on a show, to change lives forever.

They didn't understand that here in Twelve – or in most of the districts. Didn't understand that it was all about the show. Even in One, Two, and Four, the focus was on training – on weapons and skills and strength. And training was helpful, of course – the last four Games had proven that. But, on its own, it wasn't enough.

It didn't matter that Twelve was the poorest district. It didn't matter that their tributes weren't trained. Didn't matter if they were young, weak, skinny. As long as they put on a good show, they had a chance. And the Capitol had finally realized it. District Twelve didn't need a soldier. They didn't need an expert strategist. They needed a showman.

And now they had him.

The crowd shifted uneasily as District Twelve's escort, Lontae Hesperion, took her place. Silas gave her a smile and a little wave. She glared back. To her, he was just another idiot who thought that he could succeed where everyone else had failed. Another mentor who would be gone in a year or two. Another in a long line of failures.

Silas shrugged and turned his attention back to the crowd. It didn't matter what she thought. Or what any of them thought. The only people in the crowd who mattered were the three tributes whose names he didn't even know yet. The three teenagers who would step forward any moment now, shaking and terrified, into the spotlight. The three children who, after this moment, would no longer be children, but names that would be part of history.

"Blythe Ayers!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted, revealing a girl who looked even younger. She stood there, staring, horrified, helpless in the face of her worst nightmare, come to life. Then she began to cry. One of the girls near her whispered something. She shook her head, frantic, desperate.

Then the Peacekeepers stepped in. One of them made a move to grab her, but, before he could, she took off sprinting – towards the stage. Maybe hoping to earn back some of her lost image by at least making it to the stage under her own power, rather than being dragged to her death. She hurried up the stairs, her face turned away from the cameras, trying to hide her tears.

But she couldn't hide them from him.

But tears were nothing new to him. Nor did it matter to him that she was still shaking, still sobbing despite her efforts to stop. First impressions didn't matter. He was in this for the long run.

So Silas looked past the tears and studied her carefully. She was short – five feet at the most – and thin. Not as thin as some, though she was paler than most. Her wavy, light blonde hair was choppily cut around her shoulders. She was wearing a blouse that had probably been white at one point, but was now stained with the dirt that seemed to coat the district itself. She wore a red and green tartan skirt and brown ankle boots. Her eyes, a soft blue-grey, found his, begging, pleading for him to do something. To save her.

Silas flashed her a smile and nodded towards the cameras. _Face the audience. Use the spotlight. _The girl turned back towards the crowd, no longer sobbing quite so hard, but her gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Silas turned his own smile towards the cameras, looking as confident as he could in his new tribute as Lontae reached into the bowl again.

"Brennan Aldaine!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy who, for a moment, looked as though he might run. His whole body was tense, his eyes wide, his face pale. But, when he finally took his first trembling step, it was towards the stage, not away form it. One step followed another – shaky and slow, but consistent.

Like the girl, there wasn't anything particularly special about his appearance. Average height, average build, not quite as pale as the girl. Tousled brown hair and gentle brown eyes that were struggling to hold back tears. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and khakis. Looking closer, Silas noticed a watch – an old watch, perhaps a family keepsake. Sentimental.

_Not that that's a surprise. _Silas watched as the boy took his place by his new district partner, managing a small nod. She stared back at him, terrified, but, in that moment, the terror united them, and he reached for her hand. She gripped it tightly, clinging to it as if it were a lifeline. The two of them glanced over at Lontae, waiting for the third name.

"Francis Cooper!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy who immediately looked much older than his two district partners. There was no hesitation, no shock before he started walking towards the stage. There was fear in his eyes, but no tears. A distant fear of the future rather than the panic of the here and now. Already thinking ahead. Already looking towards what was to come.

He was taller than the other two – a little tall even for his own age, and rather lanky. He was pale, with dark reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes. A strong, angled jaw and a slightly upturned nose. He wore a blue collared shirt, brown dress pants, and a well-worn black jacket.

Instead of stopping beside his district partners, however, the boy hesitantly approached Lontae. "May I…?" he asked, gesturing towards the microphone.

Lontae blinked, confused, but Silas nodded emphatically, and Lontae stepped aside. The boy looked out at the crowd. "I just wanted to say … thank you to our district, for the time we've had here. And we promise that…" his voice faltered, unsure. Promise what? That one of them would come back? That this year, somehow, would be they year that everything changed. The boy glanced at his two district partners, who were watching, as surprised as anyone else.

"That we'll make you proud," the boy decided at last, stepping back from the microphone and shaking the other boy's hand, then the girl's. Last, the two younger tributes shook hands.

Silas nodded, satisfied, as the three of them were led away. They had potential – all three of them. More than their district knew. More than _they _knew.

"Pretty speech," Lontae commented wryly as she and Silas headed off towards the train. "Won't help them much once they're in the arena."

Silas shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's amazing what a difference the little things can make. Everyone wants to focus on the big picture – the training, the alliances, the strategy. No one ever pays attention to details. But the big picture is made up of details. You have to be able to see the trees as well as the forest.

Lontae shook her head. "There is no forest. There are no trees. There is no big picture – not here. There's just days, and then hours, and then minutes, until all three of them are dead – and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Silas shrugged. "Who said anything about stopping it? No one can stop it. We've all got years, then days, then hours, then minutes – it's just a matter of how many, and how long we can postpone what's coming for us all, in the end. That's life – and the Games are no different. There's only one winner, and most of the audience has it all wrong. The winner isn't one of the tributes. The winner isn't the person who lives the longest, who survives to face death at some later time." He grinned, clapping Lontae on the back.

"The winner is Death."

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14**

They couldn't go yet.

Blythe couldn't hold back another wave of sobbing as the Peacekeeper knocked on the door, signaling that their time was over. At least here, cradled in her parents' arms, with her younger siblings nearby – here, she felt a little safer than she had onstage. There, she had been alone. Exposed. Helpless.

But the truth was that she wasn't any safer here. If anything, those extra minutes only meant that she was that much closer to the inevitable. That much closer to the Games, to the arena.

To death.

Blythe buried her face in her mother's shirt. She didn't want to go. She didn't want them to go. There was so much she hadn't said. So much she hadn't done. This couldn't end yet.

The Peacekeeper knocked again, then opened the door. Several of them stepped in, ready to drag her family away from her. Blythe clung to her mother, but a Peacekeeper's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her away. Another took her mother and father by the arm and yanked them roughly out the door. A third lifted Iona, the youngest, who was clinging to Blythe, and tore her away. The other four – Joran, Milo, Rae, and Kellin – were quickly taken away, as well, leaving Blythe alone, calling for them, calling that she loved them, that she would try to come home, that she wanted nothing more in the world than to see them again, just for a moment.

Still sobbing, Blythe buried her face in her hands, even though there was no one else there to see. Soon, they would all see. The whole Capitol would see her, and what would they see? Another weak, crying girl from District Twelve. Another helpless tribute for the bloodbath. Another quick death.

Blythe finally drew her hands away from her face, her fists clenched. No. She didn't want that. She didn't want to _be_ that. All her life, she had told herself she wouldn't be just another number. Just another poor citizen, struggling from day to day, working half to death just so death wouldn't come from starvation, instead. She'd always wanted to be something more. Something better.

Something greater.

Maybe this was her chance. It was a small chance, but a small chance was better than none. It was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15**

He couldn't go yet.

Brennan took a deep breath, fighting back tears. It had taken all of his control not to fight, not to cry and scream, as the Peacekeepers led his parents away. That wasn't how he wanted them to remember him – as a crying, screaming child. He wanted to be calm. He wanted to be strong.

But how long could it last?

The door opened again, and Olivia stepped in, quiet, hesitant. Brennan bit his lip. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say _everything._ How frightened he was, how much he wished things could be different, how much he hoped he would see her again. But it was better to let her speak first. Let her get it all out.

Then maybe he could, too.

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. "I'm so sorry," Olivia said at last. "I wish…"

She stopped there. What could they wish for? That his name hadn't been drawn? That they could turn back time, stir the slips again, and the escort would pick someone else? A silly wish. A childish wish. And he didn't want to be remembered as a child.

He'd always wanted to be remembered for something. Something good, something useful, something that would make District Twelve – or even Panem itself – a little better. But how could he do that in the Games? How could he hold onto that dream, when, by definition, the Games made everything – and every_one_ – worse?

He didn't want to be part of that. He didn't want to _be_ that. He didn't want to be just another tribute, just another life destroyed by the Games. He wanted – he had _always _wanted – so much more.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he finished for her. That was what it came down to, in the end: He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to leave her, or his family, or the district he loved. But, in the end, he had to. And the only way he was ever going to see them again – the only way he was ever going to come home – was if he accepted that, first, he had to leave.

All too soon, the Peacekeepers came to take Olivia away. But, just before she left, Olivia slipped her locket into his hand. Nodding, he took off his watch – the watch his grandfather had given him before he died three years ago – and handed it to her. "I'll be back for this." It wasn't much of a promise, but it was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

**Francis Cooper, 17**

He had to go now.

Francis shook his head as he watched his parents leave. His brother Arnold hung back for a moment, and the two embraced. But then Arnold had to go. And soon he would have to go, too.

But part of him was already gone. Part of him had already left District Twelve, the moment the escort had called his name. Part of his mind was already in the Games, already thinking through scenarios, already considering the worst: that he might not be coming home.

But was that the worst? Was that really the worst that could happen? District Twelve didn't have any victors of its own, but he saw them every year on the screen. So many of them were broken. So many of them were miserable. He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to _be_ that.

But he _did_ want to live.

There was so much to live for, now that he really thought it through. Maybe District Twelve wasn't the best place to live. Maybe it was the poorest district. The smallest district. Maybe there weren't a lot of opportunities here. But he had his family, his friends, his _life_ here. He wasn't ready to let all of that go.

Francis took a deep breath. There was no reason to let it go just yet. No reason to just give up. He had a chance. Maybe not the best chance, but, with no volunteers from the Career districts, it was a better chance than normal. At least, he hoped it was. Hoped that would be enough to give him a fair chance.

A fair chance at killing. A fair chance at fighting another teenager, at seeing the life drain out of their eyes, at having their blood on his hands. What sort of a chance was that? Was it a chance he could live with?

Francis shook his head. It was a chance he would _have_ to live with, if he was going to come home. Maybe he didn't have to let go of his hope, but there was something he _did_ have to let go of: the foolish idea that victory could come without a price, without memories that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

But it was worth it, because that was the only way he would _have_ the rest of his life. That was the only way he would _have_ something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

"_It's all so brief, isn't it? ... It wouldn't be so bad if life didn't take so long to figure out. Seems you just start to get it right, and then … it's over."_


	14. Train Rides: Blind Comfort

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here we have our first Train Rides chapter. Despite starting with District One, you'll probably quickly notice that we're not going in order. Districts were grouped by which ones fit well with a particular theme. There will be four train ride chapters, with three districts per chapter.

Also, each district's section is told from one tribute's point of view. This does not mean that I like that particular tribute better or anything like that – just that their point of view worked better for this particular chapter.

* * *

**Train Rides Part One  
****Blind Comfort**

* * *

**Henri Saunders, 18  
****District One**

They were monsters.

Henri watched, disgusted, as their three mentors crowded around the screen to watch the other reapings. Elaine hesitantly took a seat on the floor by Stellar. Daedem stood a little ways away, arms crossed. Henri sat at the table, watching from a distance.

She wanted no part of this. It was terrible – analyzing other teenagers as they were called to their deaths. Pretending that would give them some insight into the competition, when, really, they probably just enjoyed it. After all, just because someone was crying at the reaping didn't mean they were weak. Didn't mean that they wouldn't make it just as far as anyone else in the Games.

Did it?

Henri shook the thought from her head. The other two were the weak ones, not her. Weak for pretending to go along with their mentors, pretending to enjoy this, pretending that there was nothing wrong with any of it. Nothing wrong with the thirty-six of them being sent to their deaths for the enjoyment of the Capitol. Nothing wrong with the Games.

Their own reaping played first. She heard Daedem shouting. Saw herself crying. Saw Elaine try to run. And yet the mentors still watched, undeterred, claiming to be looking for strong, capable allies when the truth was that no one strong, capable, and prepared for the Games would want to ally with the three of them in the first place. Jade, Stellar, and Scarlet were treating them like Careers. But the three of them weren't Careers.

They weren't monsters.

So instead of looking for strength and capability, Henri studied the screen, watching for glimpses of humanity. Tears. Fear. Anything that would reassure her that, yes, some of the other tributes were human. Some of them could be trusted.

Some of them might actually _want_ to be her ally.

District Two looked fairly confident and certainly more prepared than them, but District Three had a skittish little boy who wouldn't even look at the cameras. A boy from Four hugged a few of his friends before taking the stage. A girl from Five couldn't hide a few tears before she collected herself and started blowing kisses, instead. One of the girls from Seven was crying, as was a little boy from Eight. The boy from Nine tried to comfort one of the girls who was crying; so did the boy from Twelve.

It was nice to see some humanity.

Henri turned her attention back to the food in front of her and resumed ignoring the others, who were now chatting about strategy and potential allies. Eventually, Scarlet pulled Daedem aside into one of the other rooms to speak with him privately, and Stellar did the same with Elaine.

Only then did Jade plop down across the table from her. "I know you were watching."

Henri glanced up. "What?"

"The reapings. You were pretending not to, but I caught you glancing over at us. So what did you think, Molly?"

"It's Henri."

"Henri?"

Henri glared; he could at least bother to learn her name before trying to talk to her. "Short for Henrietta. It's my middle name."

Jade nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Henri. I'm Jade."

"I know."

Jade smirked. "I see. And what else do you know about me?"

"I know you run the Career Academy with your wife, and the two of you train kids to die."

That caught him off guard. But, after a moment, his smile returned. "I see. You … disapprove?"

"Yes."

"Might I ask why?"

_Why? _He had to ask _why_ she didn't approve of training children to fight, to kill, to die for the pleasure of the Capitol?

"Nobody's forced to be there, Henri," he pointed out when she didn't answer. "Those students we're training – they want to be there. They _choose_ to be there. If it weren't for our academy, they'd still train on their own, like I did – just not as well, and they wouldn't be as prepared. Isn't it better for them to be as ready as possible?"

"As _ruthless_ as possible," Henri corrected.

"Fair enough," Jade agreed. "But few people ever win the Games without being ruthless. If that's what you're planning, you're going to have a hard time of it."

Henri glared. "Then I'll have a hard time. It's worth it to have a clear conscience."

Jade smiled a little. "Don't kid yourself, Henri. Even the victors who weren't ruthless killers don't have clear consciences. Only one tribute ever made it out of the arena without killing, and that would never have happened with our current Head Gamemaker – and certainly not during a Quarter Quell. He was lucky, but you can't count on the same thing."

Henri looked away. "Well, I suppose if I was attacked, I might be able to…" She trailed off. Did she really believe that? Was killing any different if she was attacked first? Did that change the fact that she would be taking a life?

Jade nodded. "That's a start. We can work with that."

"I don't _want_ to work with you."

Jade shrugged. "Well, if you'd rather have Stellar or Scarlet, I could still ask—"

"I don't want to work with _any_ of you!"

Jade sighed. "Okay, so you don't like the Games. You don't want to be here. I get that – I really do. That's one of the reasons it's good that our training academy exists. Any other year, you wouldn't be here. Someone would have volunteered. Someone would have saved your ungrateful life."

Henri opened her mouth to argue, but Jade cut her off. "You don't like me? Fine. I get that, too. From what you know about me, you probably think I'm a cold, heartless monster." He shook his head. "You know about Stellar, yes, but did you know that we have two kids? Did you know that after the training center closes for the day, we both go home to a family we love more than anything? Did you know that, sometimes, we'll pack a picnic dinner, watch the sun set over the mountains together, and wait for the first stars to come out?" He smiled a little, shaking his head.

"Hardly the description of a monster."

* * *

**Niles Avdeyev, 16  
****District Five**

Harakuise was a monster.

Niles stormed off to a room of his own as soon as they were on the train. He didn't want to be anywhere near Harakuise. He didn't even want to be on the same _train _as him, but that couldn't be helped.

Niles punched the wall. It was bad enough that he was on his way to the Games – and probably to his death – but to have to spend his last few days before going into the arena in the company of the man who had arranged for his family's execution was beyond cruel.

No, not a man. A monster.

And the others – Tania and Sabine – they were almost as bad. How could they stand by and do nothing while his family was murdered? Their silence made them no better; they may as well have openly agreed with what Harakuise had done.

Then again, they sat back and watched every year while twenty-three children were murdered, so why should he expect them to treat his family any differently? They were frightened – too frightened to do anything – just like the rest of the district. A district of cowards and weaklings, just like all the other districts – or, at least, just like the ones that weren't even worse.

"Niles?"

The door opened, and Tania stepped inside. Niles looked away. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted his family, but, if he couldn't have them – if Tania was right about him being doomed – then he just wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

He certainly didn't want to listen to anything that she had to say. She hadn't done anything. Harakuise had told her he was going to kill Niles' family, and she had done nothing. She was just going to stand by and let him do it.

That made her just as bad.

"I brought you some food," Tania offered. "I figured you might not want to eat with—"

"With a monster?" Niles finished. "With the murdering scum who's going to kill my family as soon as I'm gone? No, I don't want to eat with him. In fact, if I see him again, you may have to stop me from killing him."

Tania sighed heavily. "You'll probably have to get in line." Niles cocked an eyebrow, and Tania smiled a little. "Oh, there isn't exactly a shortage of people who want him dead. There are a lot of people in the district who would be on your family's side if they weren't so afraid of retaliation. Harakuise has his share of enemies."

Niles studied her for a moment. "But you're not one of them. Why?"

Tania hesitated, a bit taken aback. "I…" She thought for a moment before continuing. "I knew him before the Games. I was his mentor, but, believe me, I didn't want to be. He was cold, calculating … but he was also cruel. Sadistic. He enjoyed the idea of killing. He was looking forward to it."

"Some things don't change," Niles scoffed.

Tania shook her head. "Actually, they do. The Games changed him, Niles, and, unlike so many of us victors, they changed _him_ for the better. Don't get me wrong; he's still cold. Still ruthless. But what he does, he doesn't do for fun. He doesn't do it because he enjoys it. He does it because, for whatever twisted reason, he believes it's right."

Niles scowled. "So I'm supposed to be grateful that he's not as bad as he used to be?"

"No. I don't expect you to be grateful. I don't expect you to be happy. I wouldn't be, either. But you asked why I don't want to kill him. Why I don't consider myself his enemy. More often than not, I disagree with him, but that doesn't make him a monster."

"Maybe not. But killing my family does."

"Niles, I didn't come to argue with you."

"Then why _did_ you come?"

Tania's gaze fell to the floor. "I came to ask you not to kill him."

Niles almost laughed. "What?"

"You heard me. He's not an idiot, Niles; he told me you'd make an attempt, sooner or later. I'm here to ask you not to – for your sake."

Niles shook his head. The thought _had_ crossed his mind. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't. If what you said before is true – if I'm as good as dead – then what do I have to lose?"

"More than you know. I've been talking to him, Niles, and he's dead set on your father's execution … but I think I might be able to convince him to spare your siblings. Or at least your little sister. Believe it or not, he has a soft spot for children. We can claim your father was influencing them – that, with the proper reeducation, they'll no longer be a danger."

"Reeducation," Niles repeated. "Capitol brainwashing. Force-fed propaganda, exaggerations, and lies. You think I want that for them?"

"Is it better or worse than death?"

"Worse! Better to die for what we believe in than to live like you – too afraid to stand up for anything! And if they were here, they'd say the same thing."

Tania sighed. "Maybe they would. Maybe I'm wasting my time. But I figured it was worth a try, so I made the effort. But that effort is for nothing if you kill him – or even if you try. The order has already been given; he's the only one who can change that. Just let me try, and don't do anything reckless."

"You expect me to trust you?"

Tania shook her head. "Not for a moment. But I do hope that you'll listen to me, for your family's sake." She turned to go, leaving a tray of food on a table nearby. "Think about it, Niles."

"I will," he promised.

And he would. He would think about nothing else, until he had accomplished his goal. A goal that was worth his own life. Worth even the lives of his siblings. Destroying a monster, ridding District Five of his influence for good – that was worth the price. So, silently, he swore that, one way or another, he would find a way to do it.

He would find a way to kill Harakuise.

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12  
****District Eight**

He didn't want to be a monster.

Enzo tucked his knees to his chest and sank back as far as he could into the soft cushions of a chair that was far too big for him. He and the others formed a circle – Shilo on his left, Janardan on his right, and Carolina and Lander seated on the couch across from him. Enzo looked away.

Lander leaned back, legs crossed, hands tucked behind his head. "All right, might as well get this out of the way first: Anyone want to be mentored separately?" After a moment of silence, he seemed to assume the answer was no. "Good choice. None of you three looks like you'd have the stomach to kill each other, anyway, so we might as well plan together – at least initially." He turned to the older boy. "So, Janardan, let's start with you. What should we know?"

"Know?"

Carolina nodded. "If we're going to help you, the more we know about you, the better. But if you don't want to tell us right away, that's fine."

The boy shrugged. "Well, for starters, most people call me Fletcher. I'm a—"

"Pickpocket?" Shilo finished.

Fletcher cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"You stuffed three spoons in your pocket while we were eating. And you were eyeing the candlesticks."

Fletcher grinned. "Can you blame me? They're worth a fortune."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to sell them at the training center or anything. Which means you did it out of habit – unless you're planning to use one of them as your district token."

Fletcher chuckled. "Not a bad idea. And what about you – some sort of scientist or detective or something?"

Shilo shrugged. "Just observant. Actually, I'm a model."

Fletcher looked her over once. "A model?"

Shilo giggled. "Clearly, you don't follow fashion."

"Only what's worth stealing. So unless you're modeling rings or jewelery—"

"Dresses, mostly. Eight is the textile district, in case you'd forgotten."

"Well, it _is _a bit hard to keep track," Fletcher admitted. "There are twelve of them, after all."

"Yeah, but you only live in one."

Fletcher smirked. "Do I, now?"

That caught Lander's attention. "You've been outside District Eight?"

Fletcher shook his head. "Of course not; I was just teasing. How about you, Enzo? Anything special we should know?"

Enzo froze. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't a thief. He wasn't a model. He wasn't famous or talented or special. He was just a kid.

And, until now, that had always been enough.

"I…" What did they need to know? "I'm scared."

"Lander scoffed. "You don't say."

Carolina shushed him. "What are you scared of, Enzo?"

"Dying?" Lander offered, earning an elbow in the stomach from Carolina.

"Well, yes," Enzo admitted. "But also … I'm scared of doing what you did. Of killing. I … I don't want to be a monster."

Lander's gaze softened a little. "Now, who does that remind me of?"

Carolina leaned forward. "I said the same thing, Enzo, the first time I was on this train. I didn't want to die, but I also didn't want to end up like … well, like Lander."

"And did you?"

"In some ways," Care admitted. "Once you're in the Games, Enzo … everyone does terrible things. Things they regret."

"What did you do?" Shilo asked. Enzo didn't want to admit it, but he was curious, as well. Carolina's Games had been before he was born; he had no memory of her victory, or what she had done. He only knew that, somehow, she had lost an eye – an eye that the Capitol had replaced with the red, mechanical one that was now studying him, bright and fierce, a strange contrast with the rest of her appearance.

Carolina shook her head sadly. "I abandoned my allies. Two younger tributes I had told myself I was going to protect. I cared for them, but, when it came down to it, I valued my own life more. We were running away from a mutt, and I … I shoved Maeren down in its path. Koray went back for her, and I … I just ran away."

Shilo stared, horrified, until Lander cut in. "I killed my district partner," he offered. "We were down to the final five and running away from the other group of tributes. She tripped and fell in some quicksand, and, instead of trying to save her, I buried a knife in her chest."

"That's terrible," Enzo said before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth.

Lander nodded. "Yes, it is. Everything in the Games is terrible, and the sooner you accept that, the better. No matter how hard you try, a part of you gets left in the Games."

"Sometimes quite literally," Carolina nodded, winking her mechanical eye. Enzo looked away.

Lander shrugged. "I was going for a metaphor, but, yeah, that, too." He wiggled the fingers on his left hand, which, now that Enzo looked closer, had a bit of a robotic look to them. Enzo shrank away.

Carolina's smile faded. "I'm sorry. If it bothers you, I can—"

"If it bothers him, he can learn to deal with it," Lander pointed out. "He'll have to deal with a lot worse in the arena."

Carolina shrugged. "Still, no reason why that should start now." She reached for the bag beside her and dug around a little inside it.

"Looking for this?" Fletcher asked, holding up a glass jar.

Carolina grinned as he tossed it to her. "I don't even want to know what you were planning to do with that." She carefully removed the mechanical eye, slipped it into the jar, then covered the empty socket with an eye patch. "Better?"

Enzo nodded. It was a little better. A little less intimidating. But the eye patch – and the empty socket beneath it – was still a reminder of what she had lost. And what she had become.

"Not everyone loses an eye or a hand," Lander pointed out. "But each of you is going to lose something. And two of you, at least, are going to lose your lives. You can hide that for a while – you can cover it up – but you can't ignore it forever. Sometimes it's better to just face it."

Enzo closed his eyes. He didn't want to face it. He didn't want to see what he would have to become in order to win, because, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he could never do what they had done. Not simply that he didn't _want_ to – although that was certainly true, as well – but that he _couldn't_.

He couldn't do it.

* * *

"_You and the rest of your kind take blind comfort in the belief that we are monsters, that you could never do what we did."_


	15. Train Rides: Enlightened Self-Interest

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me if you have any alliances in mind. We're seeing the start of a few this chapter, but there are still plenty left to be decided.

* * *

**Train Rides Part Two  
****Enlightened Self-Interest**

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

Mortimer was silent as they watched the reapings.

Dewan did his best to stay still and silent until his mentor said something. Maybe it was some sort of District Two ritual not to discuss the competition until they'd seen all of the other tributes. Maybe that was an unspoken part of Career-district thinking that they'd never covered in training.

Or maybe he'd missed that day.

So he tried to pay attention to the reapings, but, after District Five or so, the faces started to blur together. There were just _so many _of them. How was he supposed to analyze all of them from just a few moments on the screen? Wouldn't it be better to just wait until he actually met them?

Then again, that would probably be a poor use of training time – running around and scrutinizing the other tributes, looking for weaknesses. Time he could be spending trying to brush up his skills, trying to remember lessons from years ago, before he'd decided that training was too much of a bother.

Now he almost wished he'd put in the effort to keep training.

Clearly, Mortimer wished the same thing. He'd been scowling since they'd gotten on the train, and had only softened up when Talitha had suggested that they watch the reapings together. Vester had reluctantly agreed and retreated to a sofa in the corner, watching the five of them from a distance. Adrian and Simone were watching the screen intently, soaking everything in.

Mortimer probably wished he was working with one of them, instead.

At last, District Twelve finished, and the screen switched off. Mortimer slowly stood up. "All right, Dewan, come with me."

That caught Dewan off-guard. He'd assumed that the three of them would be working together – or at least planning together. Was Mortimer that convinced that he couldn't hold his own with his older district partners? Reluctantly, he followed his mentor to the next car.

Mortimer closed the door and took a seat, gesturing for Dewan to do the same. Then he leaned forward a little, hands folded. "All right, Dewan, let's be perfectly honest. I wish you weren't here. I wish I had a different tribute. Not one of the other two, mind you – out of the three of you, you were my first choice."

"Really?" Dewan asked, shocked – and prouder than he wanted to admit. Mortimer had wanted _him_? Even though he'd dropped out of the academy? Even though he was the youngest? _He_ had been Mortimer's first choice?"

Mortimer nodded. "Really. But only out of you three. I'd rather have a proper Career to work with – someone who trained as more than a fad, someone a bit older, someone more ready."

Dewan nodded. "I understand. I wish you had someone else, too – because then I wouldn't be here."

Mortimer finally cracked a smile. "Fair enough. But, seeing as you're what I've got to work with, I'm certainly going to give it my best shot. Not just for you, but for our district. Training gives us an edge, yes, but this is our chance to prove that we can still win without it. Do you understand that?"

Dewan nodded. He was more interested in saving his own life than in bringing honor to District Two, of course, but now the two sort of went hand in hand.

"Good," Mortimer said. "Now, down to business. I don't want you working with the other two. You're not fully trained, and the other mentors know it. But you don't want your allies to. Put on a good enough show during training, and the other tributes will believe you're a full-fledged Career – a young one, perhaps, but trained. Most of them won't be. District One certainly isn't. Your two district partners aren't. One of the girls from Four might be, but that's it. As far as the rest of the tributes are concerned, the little training you've had makes you more prepared than most of them combined."

"What does that mean as far as allies?" Dewan asked, hoping that was the right question.

"I doubt there will be a Career pack, for starters," Mortimer offered. "At least, not in any usual sense of the word. "So form your own. The size of it doesn't really matter – what matters is that you look for tributes who are at your level – or who can at least pretend that they are. You're looking for the actors. The pretenders. The ones who won't care if most of your talent is just a show, because theirs is, too."

"Who would you suggest?"

Mortimer shrugged. "Impossible to tell from just a reaping. Keeping up an act for a few minutes is one thing; maintaining it during the entire training time, and at least a good portion of the Games – that's different."

"So then why did we even watch the reapings?"

Mortimer chuckled. "Tradition, mostly. And reapings can tell you a few things – ages, for starters. Sometimes you'll get an older batch, sometimes a younger one. This year is right about average. You're right in the middle, which isn't surprising. Look for allies around the same age as you – maybe a little older. But never rule out anyone based on age alone. We've had three victors younger than you, and four your age."

"Hazel, Harakuise, and Miriam were younger. Talitha, Mags, Crispin, and … who else was fifteen?"

Mortimer smirked. "Glenn. Not sure we should count him, really, but he's alive, so I suppose that makes him a victor. That's pretty impressive, by the way."

Dewan shrugged. He'd never really wanted to volunteer for the Games, himself, but they were still a part of what District Two stood for, what they were proud of. Since Mortimer was already impressed, he decided to try his luck. "Not as impressive as having the highest kill total in the history of the Hunger Games."

Mortimer chuckled. "If you're trying to flatter me … it's working."

Dewan grinned. "Good."

"You've got a shot at breaking that, though," Mortimer pointed out. "More tributes means more kills. Ten in a regular year is almost half. Half here would be eighteen – you could completely destroy my record."

Dewan hesitated. Eighteen. He couldn't imagine killing eighteen people. Or ten. He had a hard time picturing himself killing one. But he couldn't let Mortimer know that. "That sounds … good."

Mortimer shook his head. "You're not fooling me. If you were after records or glory, you never would have quit training. You don't want to kill." He shrugged. "But that doesn't mean you can't or won't. Anyone can kill when their life is on the line. You won't enjoy it, but I think you have it in you to be able to live with yourself afterwards."

Dewan hoped he was right.

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

Vernon was completely ignoring them.

Cassandra clenched her fists. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to march right over to where Vernon and Luke were sitting at the table and give them both a well-needed punch in the face. Wanted to scream, to remind them that there were two other tributes who needed a mentor.

But the worst part was that she understood. They hadn't said anything about their relationship, but it was pretty obvious. And it made sense that he would want to save his son. If she was in Luke's place, she would probably be doing the same thing, and would be hurt and insulted if her father took time away from her life to help the other tributes.

It wasn't Vernon's fault he was the only mentor available. And it certainly wasn't Luke's fault that he'd been picked. It wasn't anybody's fault. There was no one for her to blame.

That just made it even worse.

She wanted to blame _someone_. She wanted to hate _someone. _But how was she supposed to hate a father for caring for his son, or a son for relying on his father?

"You look distressed," Ryzer remarked, startling Cassandra. The girl's voice was nasally and breathy, but oddly chipper for someone who had just been called to her death and was being ignored by the one person who could help her.

"I wonder why," Cassandra said bitterly.

Ryzer cocked her head, genuinely curious. "I was wondering the same thing."

Cassandra blinked. "You don't see anything wrong with this?"

Ryzer shrugged. "Of course not. It's pretty obvious what we have to do." She leaned in closer, then, in a sing-song voice, explained, "_Vernon will help us instead, when the boy is gone and … dead._" She whispered the last word, then erupted in a fit of giggles.

Her giggling startled Vernon and Luke, who turned to look. She gave them a playful wave, and, after a moment, they went back to their conversation. Cassandra stared for a moment, then stood up and headed for the next car.

Ryzer followed, trailing behind her like a lost puppy. "I scared you off. I'm sorry."

Cassandra shook her head. "Don't be. I just wanted to get away from Vernon and Luke so they won't hear us and get … suspicious."

Ryzer giggled. "Good plan. Walking out of the room for no reason after laughing at them definitely wasn't suspicious."

She had a point. "Maybe they'll just assume I was trying to get away from you."

Ryzer's gaze dropped to the floor. She had struck a nerve. How many people had run away from her – or simply avoided her – because of her appearance, her voice, her quirks? Sure, she was a bit strange, but, apart from that, her odd mannerisms seemed to be completely harmless.

Then again, she _had_ just suggested murdering their district partner.

"So you think we should kill him?" Cassandra asked, trying to steer the discussion back on track.

Ryzer's face lit up again. "No, no, no, silly. If we _kill _him, do you really think Vernon is going to help us? No, we need to get someone _else_ to kill him."

Cassandra hesitated. Somehow, that seemed worse. Killing him themselves wasn't appealing, of course, but at least it would have been … honest? Was that the right word? Getting someone else to do the work for them, and then claiming the reward of Vernon's full attention – that seemed a bit underhanded.

But no one ever won the Games by playing fair.

"So how do we convince someone _else_ to kill him?" Cassandra asked, surprised by how easily the words came to her.

Ryzer shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, but we'll figure something out once we meet the other tributes. We've got time."

_We_. Only then did Cassandra realize she had been saying it, as well. "So does this mean that we're … allies?"

If Ryzer had smiled any wider, her face might have split apart. "Do you want to be?"

Cassandra hesitated. She hadn't even thought about allies. She had simply assumed that no one would want her – the sickly, stick-thin girl living on borrowed time. Had Ryzer been assuming the same thing? Was that why she was so happy at the prospect of an ally?

Or did she have something else in mind?

She had been so quick to suggest killing Luke. What was to stop her from turning on an ally, as well, once the deed was done?

Then again, wasn't that the fate of all alliances, in the end? There was only one victor, after all. Sooner or later, they would turn on each other, and, when that happened, wouldn't it be better to know where her opponent was and what she was doing?

And, until then, the company would be … not quite welcome, but certainly refreshing. It had been so long since she'd had someone her own age – or close enough – to talk to without feeling like she was burdening them. And maybe she wasn't the most useful choice for an ally, but Ryzer had asked _her_. Did that mean she didn't consider her a burden – just dead weight to be discarded at the first opportunity?

"I'd like that," Cassandra said at last. "But there's something you should know. I'm—"

"Dying?" Ryzer finished, her tone as chipper as ever.

"How did you—"

Ryzer waved her hand dismissively. "Death has a certain smell. But I wouldn't be worried about that. _We'll all be dying soon enough – at least for thirty-five of us_," she finished in her strange sing-song voice.

She had a point.

"Allies, then?" Cassandra asked, holding out her hand.

Ryzer shook it enthusiastically. "Deal," she agreed, her voice high-pitched and giddy. How long had it been since she'd had a friend?

_No, not friends_, Cassandra reminded herself. _Allies_. They were two different things – especially in the Games. How could they be friends, when only one of them would be alive in a few weeks? How could they be friends, when they could turn on each other at any moment? They had shaken hands, but that handshake would mean next to nothing once they were in the arena. Eventually, the pact would be broken.

But not yet.

* * *

**Jazz Farnahm, 17  
****District Eleven**

Ivy wouldn't stop talking about allies.

Jazz had started tuning her out a while ago. Allies, allies, allies. Surely there was more to the Games than finding the right allies. After all, alliances didn't win the Games. One tribute did. One.

And she wanted it to be her. Not one of her allies. Not one of her district partners. Her. Why did she care if allies would help her 'make it farther'? Who cared about 'making it farther'? Tributes who placed second were just as dead as tributes who came in last.

Besides, who would want her as an ally, anyway? Who would want to ally with a tribute whose own siblings didn't even think she was worth saying goodbye to?

"So, what do you think, Jazz?" Ivy asked suddenly.

"What?" She hadn't been listening for at least twenty minutes.

Ivy sighed, frustrated. "Bakaari, are you sure you _want_ her as an ally?"

What? _That's _what they'd been talking about? Bakaari wanted _her_ as an ally? Jazz had to hold back a laugh. "You want _me_ as an ally? Why?"

Bakaari shrugged. "Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

"Well, if we're going to have allies … doesn't it make sense to start with our district partners? The other boy seems a bit…"

"Soft?" Ivy offered.

Jazz nodded. Lynher and Elijah had gone off on their own a while ago. Whatever they were planning, they clearly weren't interested in an alliance. Which was just fine with her. He didn't seem like the strongest sort, anyway. But Bakaari – tall, muscular, willing to put up a fight against the Peacekeepers at the reaping – he was a different matter.

But why would he want to ally with her?

"I'm not sure I want _any_ allies," she said at last. "I mean, how can I trust you – or anyone? We just met. We're about to be sent into a fight to the death. Only one of us lives. I want it to be me. Obviously, you want it to be you. Why should any of us trust each other?"

"Good point," Ivy agreed. "But the fact is that other tributes _are_ going to be in alliances, whether you think it's a good idea or not. And if two or three of them come after you, it's helpful to have someone else there with you – whether you trust them or not. It's not about trust. It's about strength in numbers."

"But people have won without allies. Elijah last year – he left his allies the first night."

Ivy nodded. "True. But, without them, he might not have made it out of the bloodbath – and certainly wouldn't have ended up with those supplies he was able to steal from them. They served their purpose – keeping him alive – and then he left before they could turn on him. That was smart. I'm not saying you need to stay with your allies the whole Games, but, at the start, it's helpful."

"Did _you_ have allies?" Jazz shot back, knowing the answer already.

Ivy shook her head. "No. But you have to remember, that was the Second Games. Things were a bit different back then. The Games were new. For the first few Games, it was pretty much every tribute for himself. Vester didn't have allies. I didn't have allies. Hazel had one – her district partner. Glenn didn't have any. Tania had one, but she died in the bloodbath. Lander had one – his district partner."

"So what changed?" Bakaari asked.

"Jade. He formed the first Career pack, if you could call it that. It was small – just three of them – but they were terribly effective. They were the strongest three, and, between them, they drew most of the sponsors. The next year, there was an even bigger group – a group that nearly overpowered Mags at the end, before she led them into a trap. Since then, most victors have had allies – at least at one point or another."

"Most," Jazz pointed out.

Ivy nodded. "Miriam didn't. Tobiah didn't. Crispin didn't. Sabine didn't. But look at the last four years. Mortimer was a Career. Misha was a Career. Scarlet was a Career. Elijah joined the Career pack – with a bit of coaxing – if only for a short time. See a pattern?"

Jazz shook her head. "But there are no Careers this year."

"Not your usual ones, no. But there may be some with a bit of training. And there will certainly be tributes who see an advantage in banding together."

"Should we join them, then?" Bakaari asked, a little too quickly for Jazz's liking. A little too eager to do whatever their mentor suggested.

_Their_ mentor. If he was listening to her, and she wasn't … Did that mean Ivy would choose Bakaari over her, if it came down to it? Would she help him more?

But if they were allies, then whatever helped Bakaari _would_ help her.

At least for a while.

"Maybe we should," Jazz agreed, putting a little extra emphasis on the 'we.'

Bakaari brightened. "Does that mean…?"

"Allies? I guess so. At least for a while. She's got a point – about needing allies at first. Later … I guess we can wait and see."

That seemed to be good enough for him. He was probably thinking the same thing – that, at some point, the alliance would have to end. At some point, only one of them could win.

Ivy relaxed considerably now that that matter was settled. Jazz didn't blame her. It was probably easier on a mentor if both tributes were working together. This way, she didn't have to pick one or the other. Didn't have to decide who to help more.

"You never answered the question, you know," Bakaari pointed out. "Do you think we should join the Careers – if there are any?"

Ivy thought for a moment. "You should definitely consider it. Keep it as an option. Wait and see who they are first – how many of them actually seem trained, whether or not they'd be open to working with you. But be careful. Elijah was able to sneak away last year because they trusted him. They won't make the same mistake twice. They'll keep an eye on both of you. Make sure you do the same."

Jazz nodded. But a part of her hoped it would just be her and Bakaari. One ally was enough to keep track of. She didn't want to have to think about five or six of them and how long it would be before one of them decided to turn on the others.

Or before she turned on them.

* * *

"_The universe is run by the complex interweaving of three elements: energy, matter, and enlightened self-interest."_


	16. Train Rides: Where We Can Learn

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me any alliance requests.

* * *

**Train Rides Part Three  
****Where We Can Learn**

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

How was he supposed to choose?

Alasdair watched, overwhelmed, as tribute after tribute was called to their probable deaths. Miriam and Natasha were glued to the screen. Eigen was sulking at a table in the corner. District after district played. Name after name. One after another.

Alasdair sank deeper into the chair, as if he might accidentally sink out of the train completely. Or as if, perhaps, if he fell asleep, he might wake to find it was all a dream, that he was really at home in his bed, that his name had never been called at all.

But it had. He was here. And he had decided, before leaving District Three, that he would make the best of it. That he would find someone – someone worth helping – and make sure that they came home.

But how was he supposed to decide who to help?

It was impossible to tell from just the reapings, of course, but none of them seemed like monsters. Even in the Career districts – districts he would have normally ruled out as potential allies – none of the tributes seemed eager or brutal. His own district partners seemed like a good place to start, but neither of them had given any indication that they would _want_ help from a twelve-year-old kid. Natasha was sixteen – considerably older than him – and Eigen hadn't said a word to anyone else since boarding the train.

After District Twelve, Miriam turned off the tape. "All right, let's get down to business," she said after a moment, motioning them all towards the table, where Eigen was already seated. Natasha quickly chose a spot next to Miriam. Alasdair sat on the end.

For a moment, they simply ate in silence, the four of them warming up to each other. It was Miriam who finally broke the ice. "So, what do we know from the reapings?"

An open-ended question that could go pretty much anywhere. A good way to get to know each of them, understand a bit of how they thought. Alasdair glanced at Natasha, hoping she would go first.

Sure enough, she decided to take a shot at it. "It was an even split – eighteen girls and eighteen boys. Not something that was a given this time."

Miriam nodded. "Very true. Why is that important?"

Natasha thought for a moment. "If there were more of one or the other – say there were more girls – sponsors might be more inclined to pick a girl just because a girl winning would be more statistically likely. Or the reverse, with boys. Half and half makes it an even playing field as far as sponsors go."

Miriam smiled. "That's good – already thinking about sponsors. You're likely to get a few, based on your family name alone, not to mention your looks."

"I'm not my family," Natasha pointed out.

"True, but you can hardly expect the sponsors _not_ to realize that you're a Kovaćić, and your family has a history of placing well."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow. "And you think I'll get sponsors just because of that?"

"Not _just_ because of that, but if you give them a reason to believe you're as promising as the rest of the Kovaćić tributes – or better – then, yes. The Capitol loves drama, and a tribute trying to prove she's got a better shot at the title than the fourteen Kovaćićs before her – yes, they'll eat it up."

Natasha sighed. "I just don't want to end up … relying on my family name to do well."

Miriam nodded. "I know it feels like cheating, but you have to understand – there are no rules now. Anything that can get you sponsors – sponsors who can mean the difference between life and death – is a good thing. Anything."

Natasha nodded reluctantly. "If you say so. It's just … the other Kovaćićs you mentored – they must have had sponsors, too, then. And they still died."

"True," Miriam agreed. "Sponsors are good, but they aren't everything. Sponsors can help with food, supplies, medicine, that sort of thing. But if a tribute is rushing at you with a weapon, there's really nothing sponsors can do to save you. At some point, it's all up to you."

"And I guess the others didn't have what it takes," Eigen spoke up at last.

Maybe he had been hoping that would get a rise out of Natasha, but, if so, he had badly miscalculated. "I guess so," she agreed.

Miriam shook her head. "Let's not kid ourselves. Every year, there are quite a few tributes who – at least in theory – have 'what it takes.' But only one of them comes home. One. Just like sponsors aren't the only factor involved, neither is skill. Allies are important. Strategy is important. But, to be quite honest, there's also a ridiculous amount of luck involved."

Alasdair looked up. "What do you mean?"

Miriam leaned forward a little. "In my Games, we were down to the final four when I was attacked by the pair from Ten. I was outnumbered, and before it was over, I was badly injured. Lying there on the ground, covered in blood, with them standing over me ... I thought it was the end."

"But then I heard a cannon. Somewhere else in the arena, the fourth tribute – the boy from Four – had died. But they assumed it was my cannon, so instead of finishing me off, they left me. That wasn't anything I did. It wasn't anything the sponsors did. I thought at the time that the Gamemakers might have been responsible, but later I found out the boy had been injured earlier, and had been slowly bleeding out for hours. But the fact that he died _just_ as the others were about to finish me off – that was just blind, dumb luck."

"But you still had to kill the other two," Natasha pointed off.

Miriam nodded. "And I did. Caught them by surprise, but that wasn't what did it. The Gamemakers released a flock of bats – bats that fed on blood. They tore into the other tributes, but, since I was already bleeding, they just lapped up the blood that had already been spilled. Again, I was lucky. I couldn't see through the bats, so I just kept swinging my weapon, hoping to hit something, and, eventually, I heard two cannons. I didn't even know until later whether the bats had killed the other tributes, or whether it was me."

"Was it you?" Alasdair asked.

"It was. But, like I said, it wasn't because I 'had what it took' and they didn't. Sometimes, it's the little, unpredictable things that make the biggest difference."

Alasdair nodded, more sure now than ever. He wanted to be one of the little, unpredictable things. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to find someone – someone like Miriam, someone he would be proud to help – and be that difference for them.

Now he just had to find them.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

Glenn's first suggestion was that they should eat.

Grace was grateful for that, at least. She'd made it back from the swamp at the edge of the district in time for the reaping, but only barely. She hadn't had time to change clothes or to eat, and now she wished she'd had time to do both.

But she wouldn't have traded those last few hours for anything. It was a tradition of sorts, ever since she'd turned twelve and become eligible for the reaping. Just in case her name _was_ called, she wanted her last hours in District Ten to be spent exploring the place she loved most. She wanted those to be her last memories of the district she loved.

That was worth the damage she may have done to the Capitol's first impression of her by showing up at the reaping in her usual muddy clothes and boots. It was worth a few strange looks from her district partners. It was even worth missing out on lunch, because now she had more lunch than she knew what to do with.

But, before they began eating, she took her best guess about the direction the train was headed, then turned and faced west – or her best guess at west – for a moment of silence. Then she sat down and joined the rest of them.

"What was that all about?" Hogan asked.

"I was… I was saying thank you."

"_Thank you_?" Corvo repeated skeptically. "For _what_?"

Grace felt her face growing red with embarrassment. She hadn't meant to draw attention to herself; it was just a habit. "For the food."

Corvo arched an eyebrow. "So you were thanking the Capitol?"

A reasonable assumption, Grace realized. The Capitol _was_ west, after all, and they _had _provided the rather lavish meal. "No," she said quietly. "I was thanking the One."

"The one what?"

"Just the One."

Corvo shrugged, but didn't press any farther. Hogan's attention had turned back to his food. To her surprise, it was Glenn who asked, "So why west?"

Grace looked up. "That's … Beyond."

"Beyond?"

Grace nodded. "Beyond the Capitol. Beyond the districts. No one knows exactly where, but we call it Beyond. A land of plenty. A land of peace. A place where no shadows fall."

A strange look – almost a look of recognition, as if the words were familiar – crossed Glenn's face. "And this Beyond … It's to the west?"

"Maybe. No one really knows." According to the stories, many people had searched for it, all in vain. The ones who found it in the stories were always the ones who _weren't_ looking for it. But that hadn't stopped her from pretending, when she was out in the fields or the ranches or the swamp, that one day she would find Beyond.

A silly dream. A childish one, maybe. It wouldn't be called "Beyond" if it was somewhere in District Ten. It would be called "Inside" or something like that. But that had never stopped her from looking. From dreaming. From hoping.

"I had a dream like that once," Corvo admitted. "A place where things were peaceful and just and right. I wanted to make District Ten that place. But that's all it was, Grace – a dream." He shook his head. "If this Beyond of yours is as perfect as you say, there must not be any people there, because we ruin everything. People are never peaceful or fair. And shadows … well, maybe they're not such a bad thing, if they can hide some of that."

Grace wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so they ate in silence for a while. After the four of them had more than satisfied their appetites, Hogan suggested that they should watch the rest of the reapings. Corvo quickly agreed, and Glenn pointed them in the right direction, saying he'd be there soon.

Once they were alone, however, he turned to Grace. "Where did you hear all this?"

"My mother and father."

"And where did they hear it?"

"Their mothers and fathers."

"Who heard it from theirs?"

Grace nodded. "Probably. Why?"

Glenn sat down. "Because those words … 'a place where no shadows fall' … I've heard them before – a long time ago, from an old friend."

Grace sat straight up, surprised. "Who? Where is he?"

Glenn shook his head. "He's dead. Has been for fifteen years. But the thing is … He wasn't from District Ten. His name was Aron. Aron Meldair. You're too young to remember, but he was the mentor for District Six. He died during the Games fifteen years ago, but one of the last things he said to us – to the other mentors – was that someone had once told him that … that all life is transitory, a dream. _We all come together in the same place, _he said, _at the end of time. If I don't see you again here, I will see you in a little while, in_—"

"_—a place where no shadows fall,_" they finished together.

Glenn nodded. "Exactly. He said he couldn't remember who had told him that, but to hear the same thing from you, all these years later is … Well, it's an odd coincidence."

"My father always says there are no coincidences."

"So you think it means something?"

"Maybe," Grace nodded. But what? She had always assumed that their family's faith, their stories, their words, were unique to District Ten. That other districts would have their own stories. Their own legends – pointing towards the same truth, but using different words.

But their words were the same.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I don't know what it means."

Glenn shook his head. "Neither do I. And I didn't mean to bother you with it. I just … I thought you should know."

"Thank you," Grace said quietly. It felt good, somehow, knowing that, even in the Capitol, or in District Six, there were others. Others who said the same words, maybe even at the same time. There were others who shared her beliefs. Her dreams. Her hopes.

Maybe she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.

* * *

**Francis Cooper, 17  
****District Twelve**

"Who are you?"

Francis looked up, surprised at Silas' question. Had he forgotten their names already? Francis was seated on one end of a sofa, Brennan on the other, with Blythe in the middle. Silas sat in a chair across from them, leaning forward intently, studying them.

After a moment, the other boy took the bait. "I'm Brennan. This is Blythe, and this is Francis."

Silas beamed. "Excellent! Now, who are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Who _are_ you?"

Francis leaned back a little against the couch. He wasn't sure what Silas was trying to get at, but he wasn't about to make a fool of himself trying to guess. Let the two younger tributes play his game.

Blythe was more than willing to play. "Blythe Ayers. I'm fourteen years old. My parents are—"

"Didn't ask who your parents are," Silas pointed out. "I asked who _you_ are."

"I just said!"

"You gave me a name and a number – exactly what I'm sure you _don't _want to be. Who _are_ you?"

"I … I don't know."

Silas was still grinning. "Brilliant! Brennan, who are you?"

"I'm … just me."

"Fantastic! Francis, who are you?"

Francis thought for a moment. "A tribute."

"Wonderful! What else?"

"What else? I'm a tribute who's going to be fighting for his life in a few days and whose mentor apparently cares more about playing games than about actually helping," Francis pointed out.

Silas laughed wildly, clapping his hands together. "But that's the point, Francis. This _is_ a game. It's _the_ Game. The most important Game you'll ever play. And in this Game, you are who you decide to be. So let me rephrase. You all seem pretty unsure about who you are. Who do you _want_ to be?"

"Who do we want to be?" Blythe repeated.

"Exactly! The Games are an opportunity to choose. You get to decide what sort of image you're going to project – and all of Panem is going to see it. So what's it going to be? It could save your life, you know. What have you always wanted to be, but couldn't – or were _told _you weren't? Who are you _now_?"

Blythe hesitated, but then spoke, softly. "I'm … smart?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"An answer," Blythe said, a bit more confidently. "I'm smart."

"How smart?" Silas coaxed.

"_Very _smart. Probably the smartest in my class. Maybe the smartest in all of Panem."

"Yes!" Silas grinned. "_That's_ it. But you can't just _say _it; you have to act the part, so the audience will believe it. How should the smartest tribute in the arena act?"

"Like … like all of this is going to be easy. Like I'm bored and want to find something more challenging to do, a harder problem to solve."

"Splendid! How about you, Brennan? Who are you _now_?"

Brennan glanced at Blythe, who nodded encouragingly. After a moment, he answered. "I'm … I'm just a kid from District Twelve."

Francis expected Silas to be disappointed with that answer, but their mentor's smile didn't fade for an instant. "Go deeper. What does that mean? What's so special about District Twelve?"

"It's…" Brennan fumbled for a moment over his own words. Because, of course, there _was_ nothing special about District Twelve. Nothing amazing or wonderful or even very interesting. But, after a moment, he found the words he wanted. "We're hard-working. We're honest, decent people, and, even when things are tough, we survive. We're … indomitable."

"Indomitable!" Silas repeated. "Ooh, I like that word. Indomitable! And how does someone indomitable act in the Games?"

"Like … like they're just another job to get through, just another task to accomplish, and like all it's going to take to get through it is hard work and patience."

"Fabulous!" Silas agreed. "And what about you, Francis. Who are _you _now?"

Francis thought for a moment. Blythe and Brennan were going along with him so easily. They were young – young enough that the idea that they could totally reinvent themselves, that they could just _decide _who they wanted to be, still appealed to them. But just _saying_ you were smart or brave or strong or determined didn't make it true. It might fool the audience for a while, but what use was it really going to be once the Games started?

"Alive," Francis decided at last. "I'm alive … and I'd like to stay that way."

Silas didn't miss a beat. "Terrific! Flexibility – I like that. You're whatever you need to be to stay alive – that's a great image!"

"It's not an image! It's the truth."

"Of course it is! It's all true." He leaned forward a little more, his smile fading momentarily. "In the end, we are what we _choose _to be. Oh, maybe not right away. But, eventually, what we value defines who we _are_. If someone values intelligence, they'll do their best to be as intelligent as possible, and, eventually, it becomes part of who they are. If you act patient long enough, you eventually _become_ patient. Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow. Act indomitable, and eventually that act becomes a reality. Live – _really _live – and you'll find you have what it takes to stay that way."

"But we can't – not all three of us," Francis pointed out. "Only one person wins – one out of thirty-six. And all thirty-six of us are going to have something – some image, some angle. The other mentors out there are probably telling their tributes the exact same thing. What makes us any different to the audience?"

Silas shrugged. "Nothing. This isn't for them; it's for you. Once you realize that you can _decide _who you are, the Games change. Your actions become your choice, not a terrible fate inflicted on you by the Capitol, or the Gamemakers, or me. _Choose_, and you'll find it's easier to live with the choice."

"But what if we choose wrong?" Francis asked.

Silas' smile returned. "Why, my dear boy, I thought that was rather obvious." He leaned back in his chair.

"If you choose wrong, you die."

* * *

"_The Universe puts us in places where we can learn. They are never easy places, but they are right."_


	17. Train Rides: Communities

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **A few things before we get started. First of all, my friend and fellow SYOT writer Jakey121 is starting a new SYOT, so I'd like to encourage all of you to submit.

Second, _Mockingjay Part 1 _was _fantastic. _If you haven't seen it, go see it.

Third, a friendly reminder to vote in my "favorite tribute" poll if you haven't already. When the next chapter is posted, a new poll will be up.

Lastly, thank you to those of you who voiced your opinion concerning alliances. With thirty-six tributes, alliances would have been a lot harder to sort out without your input. I now have most of the alliances settled in my head, but if there's something you'd still like to suggest, feel free to do so.

And now, without further ado, here's our last batch of train rides.

* * *

**Train Rides Part Four  
****Communities**

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18  
****District Four**

"Why don't you join us?"

Kinley waved Barclay over. They had just finished watching the reapings, and Naomi had immediately taken Calissa to a separate car to discuss strategy. Calissa hadn't said anything to them, but a clear message had been sent: She didn't want to be their ally.

But that was no reason why she and Barclay couldn't work together.

It made sense, after all. Barclay's mentor, Misha, was still sleeping off the sedative the Peacekeepers had given him and, according to Mags, probably wouldn't be much help for the rest of the ride. Or in the Capitol. Or in the Games. Since she would be mentoring Barclay, as well, in all but name, they might as well team up.

Barclay, for his part, seemed grateful to be included, and eagerly took a seat next to Kinley. Mags studied them both for a moment, waiting. Waiting for one of them to ask a question? Waiting for them to say something about the reapings? Waiting for one of them to officially offer the other an alliance?

"Are we Careers?" Kinley asked suddenly.

Barclay looked over, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, as far as the Capitol knows, we're from a Career district, you're pretty strong, and I'm…" Kinley hesitated. She'd spoken before she'd thought. What was she? What did she have that could convince the Capitol she was Career material.

"A strategist," Mags offered. "You won't fool Calissa, but you might be able to fool the audience, especially if the two of you are planning on working together."

Kinley could hear Mags' unspoken question: _So are you? _She nodded easily. "Sounds good to me."

Barclay nodded. "Yeah, let's do that."

Mags raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised it had been that easy. "All right, then. In that case, during training, you'll want to act a bit more like Careers. Act like you planned to be there, like this is no big deal, like you were glad you were picked. Pick a simple, straightforward weapon that you can pretend to have some experience with, and stick with that if you want practice with a weapon. Or you could stick to the survival stations, pretend you've already got all the weapon training you'll need."

"But then we wouldn't get any practice with weapons," Barclay pointed out.

Mags shook her head. "Weapons practice during training is a joke. What are you really going to learn in three days? Barclay, you've got a lot of raw strength. Grab a club – or anything you can use as a club – and it'll serve you better than three days of training with a rare type of sword that may or may not even be in the arena."

"Really?" Kinley asked. She hadn't just assumed that whatever they practiced with would probably be in the arena somewhere.

"Really," Mags nodded. "My first year as a mentor, I had a tribute who had trained at least a little with pretty much every sort of weapon you could think of. You know what they had in the arena? Knives. That's it. He died in the bloodbath. The girl, Ella, who'd had no experience with weapons aside from having used a knife to clean fish, made it to the final three. All in all, you're much better off at the survival stations. Learn how to start a fire, because there's usually _something_ to make a fire out of, and the concept is the same no matter what material you're using. Or how to set a snare to catch game, because there will almost certainly be _something_ you can catch and eat. But a bow and arrow? A spear? A sword? They're so different, you'll never cover every possibility in three days."

"Good point," Barclay nodded agreeably.

Of course it was a good point. Mags knew what she was doing. She was District Four's first victor. This was her seventeenth year as a mentor. Neither of them wanted to be here, but if there was anyone they could trust their lives to during the Games, it was Mags.

They. That caught Kinley off-guard – how easily she had started thinking of herself and Barclay as a team. Planning together. Training together. Facing the arena together.

And, to her surprise, it felt good. It felt good to have an ally already, because it meant that, no matter what happened during training, whether anyone else joined them or not – either way, she wouldn't be going into the arena alone.

"What about other allies?" Barclay asked. "Do you think it should just be the two of us, or should we try to find some others?"

Mags thought for a moment. "It depends on who the others are. I'd avoid anyone who seems too much like a Career."

"Why?" Kinley asked. Weren't they pretending to be Careers?

"Because Calissa will be looking for them. If she thinks she's competing with you for the same allies, she may simply go ahead and tell them you're not trained. And if they ask you to prove that you are – well, that wouldn't go too well for either of you. Let her pick the strongest, if that's what she's after. Look for people you can trust."

Kinley nodded, but her mind was already reeling. People they could trust. What did that even mean, in the Games? How could she tell from just a few days of training who she could trust with her life? Who she could trust not to kill her in her sleep?

Then again, it had taken her a matter of minutes to decide she could trust Barclay. And he had decided to trust her just as quickly. What did that say about them? Were they both simply that trustworthy? Or simply poor judges of character?

"Trust your instincts," Mags advised, as if she'd read her doubts in her expression. "And trust each other. If one of you has doubts about a potential ally, call it off. There are thirty-six of you this year; you can afford to be a bit choosier than normal."

"How choosy?" Kinley asked. "How many people would you suggest?"

Mags shrugged. "The size isn't as important as the people. Tributes with five or six allies have won, but tributes with no allies – or one or two – have also won. There are no guarantees in the Games, no one strategy that works every single time. If you find one more ally you can trust, that's good. If you find three you can trust, that's good. But one ally you can trust is better than three that you can't. Does that make sense?"

They both nodded.

"Trust your instincts," Mags repeated. "I can give you all the advice you want, but, in the end, once you're in the Games, you'll have to rely on your own intuition. And that's one thing that's as true for Careers as it is for you. All the training, all the instruction you could have doesn't truly prepare you for the arena. It can't. Once you're in the Games, your instincts will take over – and that's good. It'll keep you alive. Strategy is great, but it's more important to be flexible, to be able to adjust that strategy when things don't go according to plan. In the same way, allies are helpful, but, once you're in the arena, you'll have to trust your gut about whether or not you should stay with them or strike out on your own."

"Did you have allies?" Kinley asked.

Mags nodded. "One. My district partner, Zale. But he died in the bloodbath. Charged right in, and he was dead in seconds, while I just … ran. I left him. And I survived."

Kinley looked away, trying to picture what she would do in that situation. Trying to picture leaving Barclay to die in order to save her own life. Maybe she could do it. Maybe.

But she hoped she wouldn't have to.

* * *

**Viktoria Halisent, 16  
****District Seven**

"Why don't you join us?"

Viktoria looked up from her plate, startled by Saoirse's question. Jason and Saoirse had been discussing an alliance. It made sense – the two of them. The girl with family and the boy with friends. They both needed someone, and it was just so easy to team up with each other instead of looking at other options.

But Viktoria wanted other options.

They were nice enough, of course – which was most of the problem. Being nice didn't win the Hunger Games. She didn't need nice allies. She needed allies who could get the job done. And the more she heard Jason and Saoirse talk, the more convinced she became that, when their lives were really on the line, they wouldn't have what it took.

Viktoria looked away. What made her think that she _did_? She was a thief, not a murderer. She'd never even thought about taking a life. She had broken down and cried at the reaping. And here she was judging her own district partners for … what? For being friendly?

"I think it's a good idea," Hazel suggested. Of course she did. If the three of them were allies, it would be easier to help all of them at the same time. Otherwise, Hazel would have to choose. And if she had to choose between helping two of them and helping one…

Was not burdening herself with the others worth risking losing sponsors because Hazel was focusing on them?

"It's all right if you don't want to," Saoirse said after another long silence. "I just figured … the more the merrier, right?"

Viktoria cringed. The girl meant well, but nothing in the Games was 'merrier,' especially not having more people to look after. She had no doubt that, if she accepted an alliance with these two, they would end up looking to her. Depending on her. She would be the provider, and they would benefit.

That was no way to survive.

And, as much as part of her might want to help these two, she had to focus on her own survival. She had to find allies who would be able to help _her_, not the other way around. At last, she shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Saoirse nodded agreeably, apparently not hurt at all by her refusal. "That's all right. I'm sure you'll find somebody else."

Somebody else. Of course she would. There were thirty-six of them, after all; she would be able to find _someone_.

But what if she couldn't? Did she really want to risk going into the arena alone by turning these two down now? Viktoria softened her expression. "I just meant that it's probably not a good idea to decide so quickly. I haven't even met any of the other tributes – and neither have you. I may find someone who would be a better match, but you might, too. So maybe it's better to … well, to keep our options open."

Saoirse nodded, but Viktoria could tell she didn't really understand. She had already bonded with Jason; there was no breaking that alliance now.

Jason, on the other hand, understood perfectly. "So what you're saying is that if you don't find anyone _better_, you'll have to settle for being stuck with us," he pointed out bitterly. "We're your fallback option, your plan B if you don't manage to find anyone who would be more useful." He glanced at Saoirse and shook his head. "Well, we don't want to be just your backup plan. If you don't want to be our ally, say so, and we'll let you be."

Viktoria nodded. At least he had a good head on his shoulders, even if he was a bit eager to pick a fight. "Fine. I don't want to be your ally. But that doesn't mean we have to be enemies."

Jason shook his head. "Of course it does. That's what being in the arena _means_. We're already enemies – all of us. It's just that some of us don't realize it yet."

He was right, of course. They were all enemies – even those pretending to be allies for a while. Anything else was just wishful thinking. Why should she care if he didn't like her, or if he resented her for rejecting their alliance? Why should it matter what he thought of her?

He was probably already planning to kill her.

They were competition, after all – not just in the Games, but also for Hazel's attention. She had the power to choose which of them to help. And the only way to make certain that it was her would be if the other two were dead. They were probably thinking the same thing. That was probably why they had offered an alliance in the first place – they wanted to ensure that Hazel would help _all _of them. But now that she had said no…

"Viktoria's right; you shouldn't make this decision quickly," Hazel pointed out. "You just met each other. You don't really have a good idea whether any of you would work well together. It might work; it might not. So it's good to keep your options open. Meet the other tributes. Get in a few days of training. _Then_ decide. Don't start burning bridges yet."

Viktoria nodded, but she couldn't shake the fact that the bridge was already burnt. Jason had already realized that he and Saoirse weren't her first choice. Saoirse might trust her, but he never would.

And he was right not to.

So she would have to find someone else. Someone who _would _trust her. Someone she could use, someone she could con, as she had conned so many others. Only this time, she wouldn't be conning them out of their money or their jewels. She would be conning them out of their lives.

How different could it be?

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

"Why don't you join us?"

When Tobiah didn't reply, Dennar ventured a little closer. Tobiah's eyes were closed, but a bottle of alcohol was in his good hand, and, as Dennar took another step, Tobiah's eyes flew open. "I wouldn't come too close, kid," Tobiah mumbled, raising the bottle threateningly. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Dennar took a step back. Actually, he did know. He remembered. He had only been seven during Tobiah's Games, but he remembered. All of District Nine probably remembered watching as Tobiah and his district partner, both driven mad by the hallucinogenic fog that filled the arena, tore each other to pieces. Before it was over, Tobiah had lost his hand … but Avery had lost her head.

Tobiah, satisfied that he had sufficiently intimidated the boy, leaned back against the couch, his feet propped up on a footstool, his good hand dropping lazily to his side, still holding the bottle. "What do you want?"

"I…" Dennar hesitated a moment before making his request. Did he really want to ask this? Summoning all his courage, he blurted it out before he could rethink it. "I came to ask you to be my mentor."

Tobiah burst out laughing, spilling his drink all over the couch. "You _what_? Are you out of your head, kid? Why the hell would you want _me_ as a mentor?"

Dennar swallowed hard, collecting his reasons. "The others are in the other car right now talking about strategy. And Crispin's doing his best, I'm sure, but trying to mentor three tributes … it's just too much for one person. He's going to end up ignoring someone. I'm the youngest; I'm the logical choice. So instead of trying to share him between the three of us, I figured why not lighten the load? You're here, anyway." He took a step forwards. "Besides, it would give you something to do."

Tobiah smiled lazily, swirling his drink. "I already _have_ something to do."

"Something _useful_. Something _good_. What do you have to lose?"

"Sleep."

Dennar smiled a little, undeterred. "Wouldn't you lose more sleep over saying no?"

"Not a wink. You're hopeless, anyway."

Dennar shrugged. "Well, if I'm that hopeless, then I'll die quickly, and you can get back to drinking and sleeping. But if I'm not…"

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe. But I'm the one whose life is on the line. Shouldn't I get to decide who I trust it with?"

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. "You trust me?"

Dennar shrugged. "Why not?"

"Oh, maybe because I _killed seven people_, including my district partner."

"Only to save your own life. Crispin did the same thing. And if I'm going to win, I'm going to have to…" For a moment, the words stuck in his throat. "I'm going to have to kill, too."

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. "Well, at least you got the words out. So you trust me _because_ I'm a killer, and you think I can help you become one, too? Do you really think you have it in you?"

"Did you, before you were in the arena?"

Tobiah hesitated. After a moment, he shook his head. "No. No, I wasn't a killer. I was young. Arrogant. Headstrong and thoughtless. But a killer? No, I would never have imagined what I was capable of." He shook his head. "That's what the Games do to you, kid. They take ordinary people and turn us into … well, monsters."

Dennar took a few cautious steps closer, then sat down in a chair. "You're not a monster."

"What makes you so sure? What makes you so sure I'm not going to take this bottle, slam it against the floor, and use the broken glass to cut your throat? What makes you think I'm not two seconds away from grabbing your skinny little carcass and tossing you off this train? I'd probably be doing you a favor! At least then you wouldn't have to see yourself become a monster before you died. It would be quick. Painless." He stood up, glaring menacingly. "I could do it – right here, right now. Save someone else the trouble. What is it in your naïve little head that makes you think I'm not going to do it?"

Dennar stared. Blinked. But then he realized what Tobiah was waiting for. He put on his best smile. "What makes you think _I'm_ not going to?"

Tobiah burst out laughing. But not the cold, derisive laugh from before. A full, hearty, genuine laugh. "All right, then, kid, you've got yourself a mentor."

Dennar grinned. "You'll do it?"

Tobiah shrugged. "It's your funeral. Probably literally. But until then, yes. I'm all yours."

Dennar nodded, hoping he had made the right choice. It was a gamble, but it seemed best for everyone. He had his own mentor. Crispin could focus on the other two. And Tobiah … maybe he needed this even more than the rest of them did. Maybe what he needed was to feel useful. To feel like he could make a difference – like he could save a life.

But only if Dennar won.

Dennar clenched his fists. This gave him one more reason to fight. It wasn't just about his own life anymore; it was about what he could do for his mentor. It was the push he'd needed – a way to help someone else _and_ himself at the same time. A way to care about someone else and still save his own skin.

He just hoped that would be enough.

* * *

"_Everywhere humans go, they create communities out of diverse and sometimes hostile populations."_


	18. Chariot Rides: What You See

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First of all, thank you to everyone who voted in the "favorite tribute" poll. The results are up on the blog, along with a little post about what I use polls for (and what I don't use them for).

Also, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which tributes you _think _will die in the bloodbath. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as which tributes you _want_ to see die in the bloodbath. As with the last one, feel free to vote for as many as you like. (Honestly, I'm just as curious about how _many _tributes you think will die as I am about which ones.) This poll will be up until the end of training day three, so feel free to wait until then if you'd like to get a better feel for the tributes' abilities and alliances first.

Lastly, thank you to everyone who included chariot outfit ideas with their form. That makes this chapter so much easier to write. If you didn't (and if neither of your district partners did, either) then you were left to the whims of my imagination, and you'll just have to live with the result.

* * *

**Chariot Rides  
****What You See**

* * *

**Constance Juniper  
****Hunger Games Co-Host**

She couldn't be happier.

Constance beamed up at her father as the cameras began rolling. This was it! She was finally here. Finally part of the Hunger Games. And during a Quarter Quell, no less. It was no secret that Cornelius had been grooming her to take his place, and now, at last, she could join him in the light.

"Helooooo Panem, and welcome to the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games and the very first Quarter Quell!" Cornelius' voice echoed through the room, filling it with laugher and cheer. "Tonight, we have a very special guest. Please welcome my daughter, Constance Juniper!"

Constance felt a surge of pride as the applause rose from the crowd. Her. They were cheering for her.

But that was wrong. She wasn't the focus of attention tonight. So, after a moment, she corrected him. "Actually, father, we have _thirty-six _very special guests who I'm sure the audience is just dying to meet."

"True, true, but you can't begrudge a father a small moment of pride. Very well – on to the Tribute Parade!" They both watched as the first of the chariots appeared.

This was it.

* * *

**Stellar Floren  
****District One Mentor**

They weren't what the Capitol was expecting.

Stellar sighed, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. The costumes were perfect – deep, rich blue robes laced with diamonds in patterns that gave the impression of constellations. Elaine, Henri, and Daedem each wore a crown of thirteen stars. One for each of the districts, and a large one in the center to represent the Capitol. Each carried a scepter, the jewel at the top shining as if with starlight.

The tributes, on the other hand, were far from perfect. Henri and Daedem stood at the back of the chariot – Henri shying away from the crowd, Daedem scowling at them. Elaine stood a little ways in front of them, and Stellar was pleased to see that _her_ tribute seemed to be enjoying herself – at least a little. She was smiling and waving, occasionally raising her scepter towards different sections of the audience.

Jade nodded. "Not bad. You tell her to do that?"

Stellar shook her head. "Didn't have to. She's actually enjoying it – the spectacle, the show. It's new, it's exciting, and it's a distraction from the fact that they'll be killing each other soon."

She wasn't used to her tributes needing that distraction. She had wanted to be there. Every other tribute she had mentored had trained for this. So part of this was new for her, as well.

And part of her was excited.

* * *

**Vester Pierce  
****District Two Mentor**

They weren't what the Capitol was expecting.

Vester smiled a little, satisfied. For once, District Two wasn't the center of the audience's attention. Bland. Boring. Normal. That was how they would see this year's tributes, for the first time in years.

Even the outfits lacked their usual spark. Their stylist had apparently latched onto District One's theme of outer space, but, instead of focusing on the stars, had chosen lumps of space rocks. Dewan, Adrian, and Simone each wore a grey outfit studded with sparkly gems. The colors of the rocks and the deep blue of the chariot suggested another world, but the fact remained that everyone had seen rocks before.

Adrian and Dewan were playing along – flexing their rock-covered muscles and trying to appear as strong as any stone. Simone simply stood there, as silent and still as one of the rocks she was clothed in, acknowledging neither the audience nor her fellow tributes.

"Could be worse," Talitha pointed out. "They could have dressed them up as one big rock, instead of covering them with little ones."

Vester shook his head fondly. In some ways, Talitha had grown, but, in others, she was still that blindly optimistic young girl he had been convinced would die in the bloodbath. The Games had tempered her natural cheeriness, but they hadn't extinguished it completely.

For that, he envied her.

* * *

**Miriam Valence  
****District Three Mentor**

They couldn't be more different.

Miriam forced a smile as her three tributes appeared, covered in flashy outfits that were probably supposed to resemble computer screens. Her tributes. All hers. How was she supposed to help them all? Two was a struggle, but, at least sometimes, she'd been able to convince them to work together so that she could help them both. So that she wouldn't have to choose.

She'd had no such luck this time around. Eigen had stopped sulking only long enough to tell her that he didn't care what she thought about allies. Natasha was looking for stronger allies, allies who would actually be useful. And Alasdair … She wasn't quite sure what he wanted, now that she thought about it, but it was pretty clear that neither of the others was interested in allying with him.

And it showed. Natasha was waving at the crowd, forcing a smile, forcing herself to play the part of another Kovaćić excited to prove herself. Eigen was still sulking. Alasdair was doing his best not to look at the crowd. Or his district partners. In fact, he spent most of the chariot ride staring at his feet.

She had done the same thing.

Miriam shook the thought from her head. She was supposed to be helping them all. Not just the tribute who reminded her of herself ten years ago. But the fact remained that, in the end, only one could survive.

And all three were depending on her.

* * *

**Naomi Darya  
****District Four Mentor**

They couldn't be more similar.

Naomi shook her head, watching Calissa's district partners make fools of themselves. They were all dressed as pirates, which was bad enough, but Barclay and Kinley didn't have to stagger around the chariot as if it were the deck of a ship, pretending to be drunk out of their wits. Sure, they were having fun, but the whole Capitol was laughing at them.

She was glad she had trusted her instincts. Glad she had warned Calissa against teaming up with these two. In addition to being inexperienced – which was to be expected – they were ridiculously childish. Childishness didn't last long in the Games. They were either going to break down or simply snap, and, in either case, she didn't want Calissa anywhere nearby when it happened.

Calissa, for her part, was making the best of the obnoxious peg leg and eye patch she had been given. Naomi knew it was probably taking of all her restraint not to remove the peg leg and whack one of her district partners in the head with it. Part of her was hoping she would just do it and end the spectacle, but there were rules about tributes fighting before the arena.

So Calissa simply ignored the other two. Watched the crowd intently. Waited for it to be over. Barclay and Kinley were entertaining now, but, soon, she would have her turn.

Soon, the Games would begin.

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

The two girls were insane.

Harakuise glanced over at Sabine, who seemed pleased with her tribute's efforts. Mirami, Mercury, and Niles were dressed as exploding supernovas, their black outfits bursting with rings of color. The two girls, at least, seemed to be practically exploding with energy. They were grinning, waving, blowing kisses. They were both enjoying themselves.

He wondered how many people in the Capitol could tell the difference. How many of them would be able to see that Mercury's smiles were a bit more guarded, her kisses a bit more hesitant? She was enjoying herself, to be sure, but she hadn't forgotten the danger that loomed over the three of them.

Clearly, neither had Niles. His eyes were fixed on Harakuise. If looks could kill, he would be dead already. But, fortunately, there was no such power in Niles' gaze. He was considering it, certainly. Eventually, he would act. But Harakuise was no fool. He hadn't made it through his own Games by hoping people would have the sense to leave him alone. Niles had no such sense. Sooner or later, he would make his move.

And Harakuise would be ready with his.

But, for now, he had another tribute to focus on. A tribute who didn't seem to realize that beyond all the glamour and spectacle of the Capitol was the reality that she had only a very small chance of surviving the Games, and that what little chance she had deserved her full attention. But the more he thought about it, the less he could blame her for not giving the Games her full attention.

After all, she didn't have his.

* * *

**Vernon Barrow  
****District Six Mentor**

The two girls were insane.

Vernon sighed. Apparently, their stylist was, as well. The outfits this year were a terrible hodge-podge of half-realized ideas. Half a uniform outfit – a conductor's hat and tall black boots – and half … well, something else. Each of them wore a silver jacket, black shorts, and a rope belt. A piece of fabric, shaped almost like a peacock's tail, fanned out behind them when they raised their arms, revealing half a wheel on the fabric.

Half. Half of this. Half of that. Whoever had come up with it clearly only had half a brain. But the two girls seemed to be enjoying it. Ryzer was chattering away. Maybe even singing; he couldn't tell. Cassandra was listening with an odd smile on her face.

Luke was doing his best to ignore them. He stood tall and proud, waving to the audience like Vernon had told him to do. The outfits weren't anything to be proud of, but he could still make a good impression based on his attitude. It was a little thing, but it was something, and, for now, it was all he could do.

"I'm sorry," came a voice from behind him. Crispin. "I know you adopted those boys because you wanted to do something good – and now you're right back here with him, facing the same thing all over again."

Vernon nodded. They were the only ones who understood – the other victors. Back in District Six, they could offer him sympathy. Pity. Here, the others could offer understanding.

In some ways, they were his family as much as the boy in the chariot.

* * *

**Hazel Birnam  
****District Seven Mentor**

It was the worst costume since the apples fifteen years ago.

Hazel rolled her eyes when she saw what the stylists had come up with this time. Jason, Saoirse, and Viktoria were dressed as lumberjacks … and trees. Their legs were covered in something that was probably supposed to look like tree bark, but each of them wore a lumberjack shirt and held an axe.

Then the three of them made it worse. Jason took the first swing – swiping Viktoria's legs half-playfully with his axe. Viktoria responded in kind – but harder. Grinning, Saoirse joined in, and, soon, the three of them were all pretending to chop at each other's trunks with blades that were – fortunately, for now – not real.

Hazel turned and glared at Lander. "Not a word."

Lander was struggling not to laugh, but he shook his head. "Nope. Remember what happened the last time I made fun of your outfits?"

Carolina glared. "Oh, so I have _you _to blame for that embarrassment?"

Lander shrugged. "Only if you believe in jinxes. Personally, I don't think anything will happen if I say … That is the worst chariot costume I've ever seen."

Hazel nodded her agreement. It was terrible. The whole audience was laughing. Maybe it wasn't the _worst _ever, but it was pretty close.

Then she saw District Eight.

* * *

**Lander Katz  
****District Eight Mentor**

"So, is this better or worse than pincushions?" Carolina asked.

Lander had to think about that one. Fletcher, Shilo, and Enzo were dressed as large, bulky spools of thread. But that wasn't the worst part. Apparently, the thread on the spools was real, and so were the knots that resulted when the three of them moved. Soon, they were tangled together, and, as they tried to free themselves, it only made matters worse.

"Worse," Lander decided. "Becoming a pincushion in the arena is one thing. Unraveling completely – that's another matter."

Carolina nodded. She knew what he meant. It was a discussion they'd had upon occasion – whether they were lucky to be alive, or whether the lucky ones were the ones who died in the arena. Which of them took which side depended on the day, depended on which one was feeling guiltier or more broken. And it was up to the other one to convince them that, yes, they were the lucky ones.

Because at least they were still alive. And, as long as they were still alive, they could do something good with the time they had left.

At least, that was what they told themselves. What they told each other. But, so far, neither of them had been able to carry that "something good" over to the Games and save another life.

But maybe this year, Lander thought as he watched the three tributes try to untangle themselves from each other. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe this year, one of these three would get lucky.

Or maybe they would all unravel.

* * *

**Crispin Zephyr  
****District Nine Mentor**

He had assumed that, after spools of thread, the outfits would get better.

Crispin sighed. Apparently, the outer-district stylists were having a competition to decide who could come up with the worst outfit. Radiance, Asteria, and Dennar were dressed as field mice, complete with furry outfits, little ears, and even tails.

Clearly, none of them were happy with it. Their gazes were fixed on each other, not the audience, as if they were engaged in a little field mouse discussion about how to best avoid the eyes of the hawks around them. Dennar was talking – and even smiling a little. Crispin managed a smile. He couldn't hear what the boy was saying, but he could imagine a few words of encouragement – making the best of a really lousy situation.

Just as he had made the best of his mentoring situation, and found what might be the best situation for all involved. Crispin glanced over at Tobiah, who was actually watching the chariot rides for the first time in years. Actually paying attention. Actually looking a little bit concerned about the fact that the outfits were making the tributes look perfectly foolish.

And whatever the reason behind it, Dennar's decision had allowed Crispin more time with Radiance and Asteria, who were looking a little more confident after Dennar's pep talk and even began waving at the audience a little. Crispin smiled. That was more than he'd done at his own chariot rides. He'd been too stiff, too scared even to move. Even to smile. And yet here he was.

Proof that anyone had a chance.

* * *

**Glenn Chester  
****District Ten Mentor**

"So, are rabbits better or worse than mice?" Crispin asked with a sympathetic smile

Glenn shook his head as Crispin gave him a pat on the back. Grace, Corvo, and Hogan were dressed as rabbits – complete with long, droopy ears and floppy tails. Corvo and Hogan were practically fuming, and even Grace looked upset with the cute, fuzzy outfit. "Do you think they're doing it on purpose?" Glenn asked.

Crispin shrugged. "Who knows? They probably think it's terribly clever. You were what – a cow?"

Glenn nodded. "I guess they were running out of animals. They've done cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, ducks, geese – why not rabbits?"

"I wonder if anyone has ever told the stylists how horrible the costumes are," Crispin mused. "There can't be _that_ many people who think these ideas are actually _good._ The audience certainly doesn't."

He was right. The audience had been jeering and laughing since District Seven. Surely the stylists noticed. But maybe they didn't care. Maybe, like so many of the escorts, they were simply waiting for a chance to be moved to one of the Career districts. Until then, who cared if District Ten's outfits looked bad? After all, what did District Ten have? A victor who had earned the title through luck and another who had practically fallen into a coma upon realizing what she'd done. Maybe the stylists, like so many others, had simply given up on them.

But he wouldn't.

* * *

**Ivy Asters  
****District Eleven Mentor**

It was certainly better than mice or rabbits.

Ivy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that District Eleven's costumes didn't involve furry little rodents. Instead, the tributes were dressed in more traditional outfits, each with a pattern of grain lightly embroidered on the fabric. Jazz's dress and leggings were green, and a wreath of flowers rested on her head. Bakaari's suit was golden-brown, like the grain ready for a harvest, his head wreathed with autumn leaves. Lynher's outfit was a pure white, with patches of brown underneath, like a tree covered in snow, his hair sprinkled with snowflakes.

"Not bad," Elijah nodded, reading her expression. It wasn't anything spectacular, but it was certainly better than rabbits, mice, spools of thread, and trees chopping each other down. And the tributes' attitudes reflected that. They stood taller, more confident, than those in the districts before them. None of them looked particularly comfortable or excited, but at least they had no reason to be embarrassed.

Lynher started waving, and the others, not about to be shown up, quickly followed. The audience cheered, much more satisfied than they had been with the last four districts. Ivy smiled and clapped Elijah on the back. Maybe chariot rides weren't the most important thing that would happen in the next few days, but it never hurt to make a good impression.

And, after those last four costumes, _anything_ would have looked amazing.

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

At least they weren't coal miners.

Silas wasn't sure whether dressing Blythe, Brennan, and Francis as lumps of coal was better or worse than coal miners, but at least it was different. The chariot was painted a brick-red, which was apparently supposed to make it look like a fireplace. A fireplace with three big, bulky lumps of coal.

The costumes were clearly heavy; all three tributes were having a hard time keeping their balance with the extra weight as the chariot rolled forward. Without warning, Francis lost his balance, toppling over onto Brennan and rocking the chariot, which brought Blythe down into a heap next to them.

For a moment, they struggled to get up, but then he saw Blythe shake her head. _Stay down_. The other two seemed confused for a moment, but they decided to follow her lead, resting on the bottom of the chariot.

Silas smiled. Maybe Blythe _was _as smart as she said she wanted to be. Because there, on the floor of the chariot, at least they looked more like lumps of coal. The beginnings of a pile that could be used to start a fire. It wasn't much, but it was better than rocking all over the place, trying to stand.

Sometimes the weakest position could be turned into the strongest one.

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

Three names.

Helius glanced over the slip of paper that President Hyde had handed him after the tribute parade. "Only three this time?"

Hyde nodded. "I was thinking about what you said – about three being symbolic. The past, the present, and the future. So one of them was chosen because of what they had done, another because of what they are doing, and the third because of what they will do."

Helius cocked an eyebrow. "Will do or might do?"

Hyde shrugged. "Neither, now."

"Good point," Helius agreed. Generally, the president didn't interfere in the Games. He had bigger things to worry about, and Helius had never let him down. As long as he got the job done – as long as he put on a good show – Hyde never really bothered with the details. But, every year, there were a few chosen tributes. A few who could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to win.

This year, there were three.

Two of the names made sense. The third was a bit of a mystery to him, but he knew better than to ask why. Just as he appreciated the fact that Hyde didn't micromanage the Games, he did his best not to get involved in the political side of things. If a tribute needed to be brought down for the greater good, he didn't really have any interest in why. His job was to make sure it was interesting.

Usually, he didn't even have to interfere. The more dangerous, destructive tributes had a habit of sealing their own fates. Occasionally, he'd had to step in and take sides against a particularly tricky tribute. The boy from Seven fifteen years ago. The boy from Twelve three years ago. They had been more stubborn than most, but, in the end, he had won.

The Capitol always won.

* * *

"_Ignore the propaganda. Focus on what you see."__  
_


	19. Training: What He Appears

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Due to word-sprinting to finish NaNoWriMo (ending up with 50699 words during November) I have the next couple of chapters mostly written (but largely unedited so far) so the next few updates should be pretty quick.

* * *

**Training Day One  
****What He Appears**

* * *

**Calissa Hart, 18  
****District Four**

"I would start with One and Two."

Calissa glanced up at Naomi, surprised, as the two of them sat down for breakfast. "Why? None of them have trained – not really. You could tell that from the reapings."

"None of the outer district tributes have, either," Naomi pointed out. "And you have to start somewhere. Tributes from One and Two may be able to think like Careers, even if they're not used to acting like them. And even if they don't, their mentors will, and they'll be encouraging their tributes to do the same. I doubt most of them would know what to do with a tribute who wasn't acting like a Career."

"Would you?"

Naomi smiled a little. "Probably not. Why do you think I chose you rather than the other two?"

"They're the reason I was questioning starting with the Career districts," Calissa pointed out. Her district partners were friendly enough, but neither of them was Career material. What if the others were the same?

"That's why I said 'start with,'" Naomi nodded. "If you don't find anyone from One or Two who would be a good ally, branch out. Look for older, stronger tributes, but don't rule anyone out based solely on age. And remember, you're probably the only tribute in the arena with more than minimal training. Let them know it. You can pretty much choose whoever you want; they'd be stupid to refuse."

"And if they do?" Calissa asked.

Naomi shrugged. "Their loss. Careers or their allies have won the last four Games; they should know their chances are better with you."

Their chances. Calissa picked at her breakfast. That was how others would see her: as a way to improve their own chances. But she didn't want to improve _their _chances; she wanted to improve _hers_. If she was really the best-trained tribute in the arena, were her chances better on her own?

Probably not. A few times, a Career had broken off from the pack and decided to go it alone. That usually made them the first target, since the other Careers saw them as the greatest threat. But if there wasn't a pack in the first place…

No. No, she would need someone – at least at first. There were thirty-six of them. If she struck out on her own, one of the groups was sure to notice and target her. One on one, she could hold her own against any of them. But two on one? Three on one? No, it would be better to have someone on her side.

At least at first.

* * *

**Adrian Mors, 18  
****District Two**

She was watching them.

Adrian glanced over at Simone, who had joined him at the hand-to-hand combat station. She had noticed the girl, as well – the girl from Four, standing at the spear station nearby, but paying more attention to the two of them than to the trainer. Simone nodded, acknowledging her presence, then turned back to her training.

Adrian did the same, quickly losing himself in the trainer's instructions, following his advice to the letter. A few years ago, he would have hated following orders. But he had grown in the years since he had been kicked out of the academy, and now that his life was on the line, he was able to muster the focus and concentration that he hadn't possessed then.

Even the trainer seemed impressed. "This isn't your first time fighting, is it."

It wasn't. He'd fought before – a tussle here and there on the streets. Nothing organized. Nothing all that dangerous. But there was no harm in pretending otherwise – at least for now. "I've had a bit of training," he agreed, hoping that if he could put up a good enough act, the trainer might show him a few more advanced techniques.

"I thought as much," said a voice behind him. The girl from Four was standing there, smiling a little. She held out her hand. "Calissa Hart."

He shook it. "Adrian Mors."

"District Two, right?" Calissa asked, though, from the tone of her voice, she already knew the answer. When he nodded, she smiled a little. "You're a Career?"

It took all of Adrian's self-control not to burst out laughing. If only Mortimer could see this. "That we are," he agreed. "Both of us." He waved Simone over. "Simone, Calissa. Calissa, Simone. She's here looking for allies."

"I never said—" Calissa started.

Adrian shrugged, cutting her off. "It's perfectly fine. There don't seem to be too many of us this year; might as well stick together. As long as that's okay with you, Simone." He turned to his district partner, silently begging her to play along.

Simone nodded agreeably. "I suppose she can join us, if it's all right with you."

"Fine with me," Adrian agreed. "What do you say, Calissa?"

For a moment, Calissa's face betrayed her bewilderment. She had come over to ask them to join _her_, not the other way around. But the expression passed quickly, once again masked by confidence. "I'd love to."

As the three of them went back to training, Adrian caught Simone smiling gratefully at him. He hadn't needed to include her, but he'd done it, anyway. She probably thought he was being kind.

But he hadn't done it out of kindness. Together, the two of them – trained or not – outnumbered Calissa. If there was a disagreement, that put the two of them in a position of authority, a position to determine the direction the group would go.

And that could mean the difference between life and death.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

They were watching him.

Dewan flung another knife at the dummy, missing again – but this time only by a few inches. He was still rusty, but it was coming back to him.

Not quickly enough, though. The girl from Four and his own district partners had been watching him, but the three of them quickly went back to their own stations. Dismissing him. Maybe because he was younger. Maybe because he had missed a few targets in a row. Either way, the message was clear: They were no longer interested in him.

The joke was on them.

Maybe Adrian and Simone were fooling the other tributes, but not him. Mortimer had seemed confident that they hadn't been training. They were putting up an act – just like he was. A good one, to be sure, but, once the Games actually started, it would fall apart. As for the girl from Four, if she was stupid enough to buy their act, he probably didn't want her as an ally, anyway.

Dewan turned his attention back to the knives and threw another one, this time striking the dummy in the chest. He threw another. And another. Now in a rhythm, he was hitting the target more than he was missing. But they still weren't watching him.

But someone else was.

Dewan could see him out of the corner of his eye – one of the outer-district boys. Five or Six, maybe? There were so many of them, it was hard to remember. Maybe the boy would introduce himself so he wouldn't have to ask…

Sure enough, within minutes, the boy had joined him, throwing a few knives and actually managing to get two of them to stick. Dewan smiled. "Not bad."

"Not bad yourself," the boy agreed. "I'm Luke. District Six."

"Dewan, District Two."

"I thought so," Luke nodded. "Looked like you've trained before. Vernon's taught me a thing or two, myself."

"Your mentor?"

Luke smiled a little. "And my father. He said I should think about joining the Careers."

Dewan grinned. "You've come to the right place."

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "Your district partners—"

Dewan shook his head. "Not trained, according to Mortimer – and he runs the academy, so he should know. The _real_ Career pack is standing right in front of you." He held out his hand.

"And you're more than welcome to join it."

* * *

**Luke Marsanskis, 17  
****District Six**

He hoped he'd made the right choice.

Luke put on a smile as he shook Dewan's hand, but he still had his doubts. The boy had confidence, to be sure, but did he really know what he was doing?

Then again, Luke wasn't entirely sure what he was doing himself. Vernon had suggested trying to work his way into the Career pack, but which one? Dewan was forming one group. His district partners were forming another with one of the girls from Four, but Dewan seemed confident that his district partners, at least, didn't have any real training. The other two tributes from Four seemed to be working together over at the sword station, but neither of them seemed particularly skilled with one; they seemed more interested in having a bit of fun.

But he wasn't here to have fun.

Of the three, Dewan seemed like the best option. But the two of them didn't make much of a pack. "Maybe we should look for a few more allies," Luke suggested.

Dewan seemed receptive to that. "Sounds good. What are your district partners like?"

Luke cringed. "Disturbing. And yours are already occupied. So let's try someone else."

"Did you have someone in mind?"

Luke nodded. "Actually, yes." He nodded towards the snare station, where the girl from Three was focused on a trap she was making. "Her name's Natasha Kovaćić. Vernon noticed her while we were watching the reapings. There was a Kovaćić during his Games; apparently, some of them actually train for it. Not all of them, but there's a chance." A family name wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

Dewan nodded his agreement, and the two of them headed for the snare station and sat down next to Natasha, who smiled a little as if pleasantly surprised. "Something I can help you with?"

Luke smiled back. "Actually, yes. We're looking for allies, and my mentor speaks very highly of the Kovaćić family. Rumor has it that some of you train for the Games." It was mostly a lie, but it sounded nice. In fact, Vernon had described the Kovaćićs who trained for the Games as 'glory-seeking, mindless idiots' … but that was his opinion of Careers in general, despite his suggestion that Luke ally with them. They were useful, but, in his opinion, quite deluded.

Natasha, on the other hand, seemed to know what she was doing. He caught a look of disgust on her face when he mentioned the members of her family who had trained for the Games, but she quickly covered it up. "As a matter of fact, I _have_ trained a bit," she agreed. "Not as much as you, I'm sure, being the son of a victor and all."

Luke blinked. How did she know that? Had Miriam told her? Was the fact that Vernon had adopted him and his brothers common knowledge? Or had she figured it out on her own?

"And District Two," she continued, still smiling sweetly. "You were probably planning to volunteer on your own in a few years, weren't you."

Luke had a feeling Dewan hadn't planned on doing anything of the sort, but the boy nodded anyway, playing along. "Sounds like the three of us would work pretty well together," he suggested nonchalantly.

Luke glanced from one to the other, hoping Dewan was right.

* * *

**Hogan Graham, 18  
****District Ten**

None of them knew what they were doing.

Hogan watched the pair from Two and the girl from Four at the hand-to-hand combat station. The girl from Four clearly had some training, but the other two didn't really know what they were doing.

Still, they looked like the most promising alliance so far. Certainly better than the pair from Four who were goofing around with the swords. Marginally better than the boy from Two, girl from Three, and boy from … Six, maybe? A hodge-podge alliance, and he wanted no part of it. But these three were a bit more promising. And if they weren't quite as good as he was – well, all the better.

Because the truth was that none of them had his experience. Maybe one or two of them had trained, sure, but he made his living by fighting. His family's survival depended on him being the best fighter in the ring. Until they volunteered for the Games, none of the Careers had that sort of pressure. They were fighting for glory. For the honor of their district.

He was fighting for his families' lives.

And he already knew what that felt like. He already knew what it was to have something on the line during a fight. That gave him an advantage, even over the Careers. They had trained in an academy. He had trained on the streets.

There wouldn't be an academy in the arena.

Hogan made his way over to their station. He'd been avoiding the fighting stations. What was he really going to learn in the next three days that would teach him more than his years of street fighting had? But if it would help him find allies…

Soon, he and the trainer were locked in combat, the familiar rush of adrenaline overwhelming him, blocking out – if only for a few moments – the knowledge that, soon, he would be fighting not for a pile of coins, but for his life. Some of the other tributes were watching, but Hogan didn't care. He was used to an audience. This was what he was accustomed to.

This was what he was born for.

By the time he was finished, the trainer was a little worse for the wear, but quite pleased to have such an eager student. And he wasn't the only one. The girl from Four was watching with a satisfied smile. Hogan turned and wandered off in the other direction, as if he were headed for one of the other stations. _Three. Two. One._

"Wait. I'd like to talk to you."

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18  
****District Four**

They weren't fooling anyone.

Kinley smiled, watching Barclay swing a sword at another dummy. Anyone watching – and quite a few people were – could tell that they weren't proper Careers. That they'd never done any serious training. That they weren't exactly perfect candidates for forming any sort of Career pack.

In a way, it was good to have that out in the open. Good to have the pressure – the pressure to act like Careers, to pretend to have trained – completely gone. Maybe Mags would be disappointed, but it would never have worked – not for them. It wouldn't really have helped their chances once the Games started, anyway. And if these were, in fact, going to be her last few days, she didn't want to spend them pretending to be a Career.

Barclay had worked up a sweat and was breathing heavily by the time he suggested trying out a different station – maybe one of the survival stations this time. Kinley agreed easily, and they headed for the edible plants station. The girl from Nine was already there, but Barclay plopped down right next to her, anyway. "Mind if we join you?"

The girl smiled a little. "Go right ahead. Just don't eat the blue ones."

Kinley took a seat next to them. "Thanks. I'm Kinley, and this is Barclay."

"Asteria."

Kinley smiled. "You seem to know what you're doing, Asteria."

The girl shrugged, still smiling as if in a daze. "District Nine. Grain. Plants. Sort of our thing. Figured I'd start here, work my way up to something harder."

Barclay nodded. "District Four. Water. Fish. Not really a station for that, so here we are."

The girl laughed lightly. "Well, you're quite welcome to share. Water. Seaweed. Plants. It's sort of the same thing, right?"

Kinley giggled. "I suppose so. We usually don't eat seaweed, though."

Asteria shrugged. "That's all right. We usually don't eat the grain we're picking, anyway. Not supposed to, at least." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Sometimes I sneak some of the stuff that's fallen to the ground, though. I figure it's better than letting the mice get it."

Kinley nodded. "Speaking of mice, nice chariot outfits."

Asteria cringed. "Yeah. You, too."

"I actually liked ours," Barclay shrugged. "They were fun – and that's the point, right?"

Maybe it _was_ the point. Not the point of the Games, certainly, but what good was the tribute parade if they couldn't have a little fun with it? Why not enjoy whatever time they had left – ridiculous costumes and all?

What did they have to lose?

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She just had to keep pretending.

Asteria smiled contentedly as she and her new allies sat down for lunch. She hadn't even been looking for allies, but she wasn't about to say no when the perfect pair had found her, instead. Older, stronger, but still good-natured and fun-loving. What more could she ask for?

It was almost enough to make her forget that, out of the three of them, at least two were going to die.

Almost. It was impossible to forget, but they could choose to ignore it – if only for a little while. When the Games started, everything would change. Every_one_ would change. But for now, for these next few days, they could simply enjoy it.

And, despite the threat of the Games looming over them, there was a lot to enjoy. The food, for one thing, was wonderful. Since they'd sat down for lunch, she had barely stopped stuffing her face. Barclay and Kinley seemed rather amused, but neither said anything. Asteria didn't mind. District Four, after all, was rather well-off. Maybe the other two weren't rich or anything, but they'd probably never had to go without a meal. They were enjoying the food, certainly, but they didn't appreciate a full stomach in quite the same way as she did.

The beds, as well, were softer than anything she'd had back home. The water was warmer. The clothes were more comfortable. Well, except the mouse outfits, but even those hadn't been so bad, now that she thought about it. They were funny, in hindsight. And Barclay was right; fun was the whole point of the tribute parade, wasn't it?

In fact, if it weren't for the whole fighting-to-the-death part of it, she wouldn't mind being here at all.

It wasn't as if her family missed her. Wasn't as if she was missing anything at home. Barclay and Kinley were talking about how much they missed their friends, but Asteria didn't really have anyone. No one to miss. No one who would miss her.

So it was easier for her to pretend – pretend that everything would be all right. That they were simply here to have fun, to get away from the district, to have a good time. It was easier for her to put the Games out of her mind, to ignore the fact that she could be dead in a few days. It was easier to forget.

She wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

She was tired of pretending.

Mercury picked at her food, trying to tune out Mirami's enthusiastic chatter about how wonderful the Capitol was. She was trying. Really, she was. She was trying so hard to believe that Mirami was right, that this was all an exciting adventure. But every time, in the back of her mind, the thought resurfaced:

She could be dead soon.

Very soon.

She had done her best to ignore it. To push it aside. And, so far, she had done pretty well. She had enjoyed the train rides – the new food, the new sights, the new places. Even the chariot rides had been fun. But this … this was real. They were training now. Training to fight. Training to survive.

But, despite that, thirty-five of them would die.

And she might be one of them.

"And did you see the pair from Four earlier with the swords?" Mirami gushed. "They were amazing! Maybe we should go talk to them."

That was the last thing she wanted to do. She certainly wasn't a sword expert, but she had seen them earlier, and it didn't really look like they knew what they were doing. But, even if they did, why would Mirami want to go talk to them? If they _were_ Careers, it wasn't as if they would want to ally with a couple of younger girls from District Five.

But when she glanced over at them, she saw they were eating with one of the girls from Nine. That was enough for Mirami. "Let's go introduce ourselves!"

Reluctantly, Mercury followed her over-eager district partner to where the pair from Four and the girl from Nine were sitting. They seemed oddly receptive as Mirami plopped down next to them and started chatting. Mercury took a seat a little ways away and watched, curious.

After a little while, the girl from Four scooted down next to her. "Your district partner's quite a character, isn't she."

Mercury smiled a little. "That's one way of putting it." She didn't want to say anything bad about Mirami. After all, Mercury was usually the one telling people to lighten up, to not take everything so seriously, to look on the bright side.

But, now that it came down to it, there wasn't much of a bright side to the Games.

"I suppose that's one way to cope with all this," the other girl shrugged.

Mercury raised an eyebrow. "You think that's what she's doing? Trying to cope?"

"I think that's what _all_ of us are trying to do. We just have different ways of going about it. Some people cope by taking out their anger and frustration on those dummies. Some people cope by trying to think through every possible scenario before it happens, thinking that they can be prepared for anything. And some of us … well, some of us cope by pretending that everything's all right."

"But it's not all right!" Mercury almost shouted, tears coming to her eyes at last. "None of this is all right! And I'm tired of pretending it is!" She buried her face in her hands, trying not to let the tears show. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to be angry. This wasn't how she wanted to spend what might be her last few days.

But she couldn't help it any more.

* * *

**Mirami Fiyan, 14  
****District Five**

How could she be crying?

Mirami watched, completely bewildered, as the girl from Four put an arm around Mercury, comforting her. Mirami glanced around at the other tributes. Some of them were watching. Some of them would see. Some of them would immediately target Mercury for her weakness.

Didn't she realize that was how the Games worked? Behind all the strategy and the skills, everything depended on appearance. Everything. Allies, other tributes, sponsors, Gamemakers – they all judged the tributes based on appearances.

And Mercury's was slipping.

None of the others seemed to care. The tributes from Four. The girl from Nine. None of them seemed to realize that this would hurt their image. And what hurt their image, ultimately, would hurt all of them.

Mirami shook her head as she silently left the table. She had been wrong to approach them in the first place. Like Mercury, none of them realized how the Games really worked. She would have to find someone else.

Fortunately, she had plenty of options.

And she had time. There was no need to decide on allies the very first day. In fact, it was probably a mistake to do so. Yes, she could wait. Assess her options. Take as much time as she needed to find the perfect allies.

Or maybe she didn't need to find anyone. If there wasn't anyone else who really understood the rules of the Game, maybe she would be better off going it alone. Sure, she might lose a little ground at the beginning – sponsors tended to choose tributes in larger alliances at the start – but, after a while, they would notice her.

They would have to.

Yes, she would do perfectly fine on her own, she decided, if she couldn't find anyone else. Leaving half of her lunch uneaten, she headed over to the sword station. Maybe they weren't very practical, but they were flashy. And the sponsors loved flashy.

Because that was what it came down to, in the end: giving the audience what they wanted to see. They wanted drama. They wanted excitement. They wanted tributes who were brave and daring and ruthless.

They certainly didn't want to see tributes cry.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

He hated seeing people cry.

Barclay wrapped Kinley and Mercury in a big hug. It was the only thing he could do, really. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would make this better. Nothing that would make it go away. Nothing that would change the fact that most – if not all – of their group would be dead in a matter of weeks.

Asteria quickly joined their group hug, and, for one brief moment, everything seemed all right. If only they could just stay in that moment, that perfect embrace, forever.

If only it could last.

For a long time, they simply sat there, savoring each other's presence as if they had known each other for years. It was hard to believe he had only met Kinley at the reaping, only a few days ago. That he had only known Asteria for a few hours, Mercury for a few minutes. Maybe that didn't matter, because days – and then hours, and then minutes – were all they had left.

No wonder Mercury was crying.

"Let's find a station," Kinley suggested, and they all quickly agreed. Another station. Another distraction. Another way to forget what was coming. Another way to avoid thinking about the inevitable.

But they couldn't just ignore the Games forever.

Barclay followed Kinley over to the fire-starting station. A good choice: something physical that didn't involve ripping dummies to shreds. He and Kinley sat down, and the other two quickly followed.

Did that mean they were the leaders?

He hadn't even thought about that before – who the leader of their alliance was. The two younger girls seemed to be looking to Kinley and him for direction. Was that because they were older? Because they were supposedly Careers? Because there were two of them?

Them. It was so easy to think like that now: to think of Kinley and himself as a team. And the other two seemed to fit perfectly. When Mags had told them to trust their instincts about allies, he had expected to feel some doubt, some question about their intentions. Instead, he felt only their friendship.

He just wished it could last.

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

The pieces were starting to come together.

Fletcher sat back at the camouflage station, blending into the background as if he had painted himself into his surroundings. Alliances were beginning to fall into place – some larger, some smaller. A pair from Four, a girl from Five, and a girl from Nine sat at the fire-starting station. The other girl from Four, a pair from Two, and one of the boys from Ten were trying out the archery station. The other boy from Two, the girl from Three, and the boy from Six were slashing some dummies apart with knives.

A few pairs of district partners seemed to be working together, as well. The two girls from Six. A girl and a boy from Seven. A girl and a boy from Eleven. The younger pair from Twelve. One of the boys from Three was following the other around, but he didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about it. Less of an alliance and more of a lack of initiative, an unwillingness to strike out on his own immediately.

And then there were the others. The outliers. The loners – at least for now. And, to him, candidates. Potential recruits. He had been watching them, and had his eye on a few, but he wasn't ready to make his move.

Not just yet.

He had time. Let the supposedly stronger tributes pick who they wanted as allies. He would take the leftovers. The misfits. The strangers and the outcasts. And he would turn them into the perfect alliance.

Because that was what Godfather had done for him.

Fletcher had been trying to pickpocket him when they met. But instead of turning him in, Godfather had taken him – and several other young street urchins – under his wing. He had fed them. Protected them. Trained them. Under his guidance, they had become a family. They had grown closer than brothers, and that bond would last until the day they died.

Now it was his turn. His turn to take those who had been rejected and bind them together. It was the only thing left to do. Maybe the best thing he knew how to do. His work as the Robber Prince was impressive, to be sure, but he was even prouder of his friends and the bond they shared.

But he also knew how much he relied on them. Without them – without the real story behind his exploits – what was he? He was a leader – an inspiration, he hoped – but, without the others, that meant nothing.

So he would find others. Not replacements – the others were still alive, after all. Surrogates. An extended family. Another branch of the Brotherhood.

And he knew exactly where to start.

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

"How long can you keep it up?"

Simone glanced up at Vester, surprised. It was the first he'd spoken during supper. The others had left a few minutes ago. Was this something he hadn't wanted to ask in front of them?

"Keep what up?" Simone asked.

Vester shrugged. "Pretending to be a Career. You're not fooling anyone – especially Adrian. Sure, he's not trained, but he's got years of manual labor behind him. The girl from Four is almost certainly trained. The boy from Ten has some muscle, and you can bet he didn't get it from just working in the fields. How long do you think you can hold your own with this group?"

Simone looked away. Vester's words cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She had thought she was doing fairly well for herself, finding allies who were stronger and more competent than she was. Had she been going about it all wrong? "You think I can't?" she asked.

Vester shook his head. "That's not what I said. I'm asking how long you're planning to stay with them. Timing is crucial. They're not idiots, Simone; they know – at the moment, at least – that you're the weakest member of the group. And, in some ways, that's good. It means you'll have more protection than if you allied with people who were more at your level. But it has its downsides, too. Everything in the Games does. If they get restless – and they will – they might decide to spice things up by getting rid of the person they see as the weakest link."

"So if I think they're getting bored, I should strike first?"

"Or leave. That's what Elijah did last year, after the bloodbath. He recognized that he wasn't as strong as the Careers, so, once he'd gotten what he needed from them, he left. Killing them – or the ones that were left – came later. He had more sense than to take on all of them at once, and I hope you do, too."

Simone nodded. "I didn't realize you paid that much attention to the Games." From what she'd seen and heard of Vester, she'd pictured him watching the Games half-asleep, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a mug of beer in the other. The idea that he would remember them so clearly was unexpected.

Vester shook his head. "I deserve to watch them, Simone. Every day of them. Every death. Every drop of blood spilled. I had a hand in bringing this about. So I owe it to them to watch. Every one of them haunts me … but maybe some of us deserve to be haunted."

Simone forced down a lump in her throat. If she won, was this her future? Forever haunted by what she had done? Vester had done some terrible things, certainly, but so had nearly every other victor. If he deserved to be haunted, then maybe they did, as well. And maybe she would, too, if she survived this.

But that was better than being dead.

* * *

"_Let me pass on to you the one thing I've learned about this place: No one here is exactly what he appears."_


	20. Training: At The Time

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's our second day of training. Just a friendly reminder that the bloodbath poll will be up until the end of training, after which a new poll will be posted.

* * *

**Training Day Two  
****At The Time**

* * *

**Henri Saunders, 18  
****District One**

"You can't do this alone."

Henri looked up at Jade as the six of them finished their breakfast. "I'm not joining the Careers."

Jade shrugged. "Who said anything about the Careers? There aren't even that many of them. I'm just saying you should find someone – someone who can help you, someone you can trust."

"Like your allies could trust you?" She was too young to have seen Jade's Games when they were originally broadcast, but she'd seen the replays. Jade had turned on his allies. So had Stellar. So had Scarlet. Half of the people at the table had killed those who had trusted them with their lives.

"He's not saying you should trust them completely," Elaine shrugged. "Or forever. Obviously, only one person can win. You want it to be you. They want it to be them. No sort of alliance is going to last forever."

"So why start one in the first place?" Daedem shrugged. "Why pretend? Why not just admit that we're all enemies who are planning to turn on each other as soon as it's no longer convenient to work together?"

"Because pretending can save your life," Jade pointed out. "If I hadn't pretended to work with my allies, if we had never teamed up in the first place, the Games could have gone very differently. The three of us monopolized the sponsors. Separately, we may not have done so well."

"_They_ didn't do so well as it was," Daedem reasoned. "Sure, joining up can increase the chances that _someone _in your alliance will win, but there's no way of making sure that person will be _you_."

"That's why it's important to watch your back – even around your allies," Stellar added. "Allies aren't an excuse to let your guard down. They're not a security net in case you happen to not be paying attention. You _always _have to be on alert. But sometimes it's good to keep the bigger threats close, so you know where they are."

"But the bigger threats aren't going to want to ally with someone like me," Henri insisted. Despite everything, their mentors were still thinking like Careers. Still treating them like Careers. Still expecting the other tributes to accept them as allies without question, and count themselves lucky.

Jade nodded. "You're right. You need to find allies who will suit you. Look for someone you can work with. Someone who looks like they know what they're doing in some aspect – not necessarily weapons. Look for survival skills – and, for that, you probably want to look to the outer districts. Seven for fire skills. Nine or Eleven for plants. Ten for knowledge about animals. But don't limit yourself to that; sometimes other districts will surprise you. They've all got a victor or two, after all – all except Twelve. But don't count them out, either. If we ever have a year where the arena is a coal mine, they might do a bit better," he finished with a smile.

Henri cringed. It wasn't Twelve's fault that they were the smallest, poorest district, that their tributes were usually thin, poor, and starving. They didn't choose that any more than she had chosen to be born in District One. They wouldn't have chosen Twelve. She wouldn't have chosen One.

And none of them would have chosen the Games.

* * *

**Radiance Allor, 17  
****District Nine**

She was certain she had misunderstood.

Radiance stared at the girl from District One who had joined her at the knot-tying station and introduced herself as Henri. "You want _me_ as an ally? Are you sure?"

Henri nodded. "I'm absolutely sure."

"But you're from District One. You're supposed to be…" She wasn't quite sure how to finish that without sounding rude. Supposed to be trained. Arrogant, or at least competent. Most of the other tributes from One, Two, and Four had found allies who seemed strong and confident. Why had Henri come to _her_?

Henri shook her head. "I'm not them. I haven't trained. I don't want to be here. To be perfectly honest, I hate the Games, and I don't even much care for District One. But here I am. And here you are. And it seems like we could both use a little help."

It was hard to argue with that logic. "But you're sure you want … me?"

Henri nodded. "Absolutely."

"Why?"

"Because you keep asking that question."

Radiance blinked, confused. "What?"

"You keep asking why anyone would want you as an ally. You're wondering what anyone would see in you. That tells me everything I need to know."

"It does?"

Henri nodded. "It tells me you're not going to stab me in the back, because you're so grateful to have an ally in the first place. It tells me no one else has offered, which means I don't have a whole lot of competition. And, to be honest, it tells me that you could use a little boost of confidence."

Confidence. Right. As if it were that easy. As if she could add confidence with a few words the same way she added a few inches to her height by putting on a pair of heels. Emotions weren't that simple.

It wasn't as if she'd never tried. But it was hard to feel confident, hard to feel good about herself, when she spent night after night paying for a careless mistake made when she was younger. Hard to feel confident knowing that there was no one who would truly miss her if she didn't come back. Oh, her family would notice, and a few of her clients might comment on the fact that their favorite girl was missing, but they would get over it. They would find someone else. No one was irreplaceable.

But, at the same time, she appreciated the gesture. The girl was trying to help, and she knew she should be grateful for that, at least. Crispin had suggested she find allies, but she hadn't quite been sure how to go about it, and had spent the first day going from station to station by herself. Asteria had seemed to manage pretty well, and Dennar was at the edible plants station with a boy from Eight. And now she had an ally herself.

Maybe it wasn't as complicated as she'd thought.

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12  
****District Eight**

"Mind if I join you?"

Enzo glanced up, surprised, from the edible plants he'd been trying to sort. The boy next to him was perhaps a year or two older, but Enzo couldn't remember which district he was from. Nine or Ten, maybe. "Go right ahead," he sighed, frustrated.

The boy took a seat. "Having trouble?"

Enzo smiled wryly. "What gave it away?"

The boy nodded. "I guess they don't have a lot of plants in … Eight, right?"

"Yeah. I'm Enzo."

"Dennar. District Nine."

District Nine. That explained it. "I guess you know all about plants, then."

Dennar shrugged. "Not as much as you'd think. I mean, I know the ones I see a lot of – the ones we grow – but a lot of these are unfamiliar."

Enzo shook his head. "I just know the ones I've seen at the dyers shop … but I never really bothered to ask which of those are edible and which ones aren't. I just can't seem to get it."

Dennar nodded. "Maybe you should try something else, then."

"Like what?"

Dennar shrugged. "Anything. There are so many stations, there must be _something_ that you'd be good at. It's just a matter of finding it. And there's no point in spending hours trying to learn something that doesn't come easily to you when you could be learning a few things you'd pick up quickly."

That made sense. Both of his district partners seemed to have found something they were good at. Fletcher was circling the weapons stations, trying a little of this and a little of that. Shilo was at the throwing knives station with one of the girls from Five. Enzo had been sticking with the survival stations, figuring they were more useful. "But isn't it important to know which plants are edible?"

"Sure. But so are lots of other things. And if you were to find someone else who knew a bit more about plants, and you knew about something else, you could help each other."

Enzo looked up hopefully. "Someone like you?"

Dennar nodded. "Someone like me."

"Are you asking me to be your ally?"

Dennar thought for a moment. "I guess I am. What do you think?"

Enzo hesitated. Carolina had recommended trying to find allies, but he had simply assumed that no one would want to ally with a twelve-year-old who had cried at the reaping and didn't know a thing about weapons. Or plants. Or much of anything besides fabric dyes. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't an amazing strategist. What did he have to offer?

And yet Dennar seemed genuine. There was nothing suspicious about his actions or his words. If he was looking for people to stab in the back, Enzo wouldn't be the first or smartest choice for that. If he was looking for allies he could use and then betray, Enzo wouldn't be much use in the first place.

"Why would you want me as an ally?" Enzo asked at last.

Dennar hesitated, but then decided to answer honestly. "Because you looked like you needed one."

Enzo couldn't exactly argue with that.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He didn't want to keep following Eigen.

Alasdair glanced tentatively around the room, trying to decide. Trying to work up the courage to leave his district partner's side, to branch out on his own. But where would he go? Eigen had done nothing but drag him from station to station the day before, taunting and goading him until he finally made an attempt with an unfamiliar weapon, then insulting him when he had failed miserably. Eigen didn't deserve his help.

But, as much as he hated the idea of staying with Eigen, as much as he wanted to find someone else, he wasn't sure where to start. Wasn't sure how to go about finding someone else, someone he could trust, someone who would want his help.

Because, as rude as Eigen had been, at least he seemed to like having Alasdair around. Maybe he appreciated the company. Maybe he just needed someone to boss around. But, whatever the reason, in some way, he was being useful. He was fulfilling some sort of purpose.

Just not the purpose he wanted.

"Mind if I join you?"

Alasdair nearly jumped, whirling around to see another boy. District Nine, he was pretty sure. "Suit yourself," Eigen shrugged, turning his attention back to the knives he was throwing at a dummy. Alasdiar ducked to the side, certain that Eigen was the one the boy had been talking to.

"Actually, I was talking to you," the boy said with a smile, turning to Alasdair. "I was wondering if you'd like to join us at the snares station."

Alasdair cocked an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

The boy smiled. "I'm Dennar. Enzo's waiting over at the station."

Eigen smiled wryly. "Perfect. Another twelve-year-old. Go set some snares together. Maybe by the end of the third day, you'll be able to catch a little mouse." He shot Dennar a pointed look, letting him know that no one had forgotten their chariot outfits.

Dennar shrugged off the remark. "If you'd like to join us … just come on over." He turned and headed back to the snare station.

Alasdair glanced around again, unsure. He looked at Eigen. Then back at Dennar. It seemed a bit too good to be true – that someone else would want him as an ally, without having even met him. But, given the choice between the two of them, he knew who he would rather help.

He knew where he wanted to be.

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14  
****District One**

She didn't seem afraid.

Elaine watched as the girl from Ten took another swing at one of the dummies with a makeshift blade she had fashioned from a knife and one of the branches from the fire-starting session. It was a crude weapon, but it extended her reach, which needed all the help it could get.

Elaine wished she had thought of that.

Jade had suggested looking to the outer districts for allies, and, even though he wasn't her mentor, it seemed like a good idea. What did she have to lose?

The girl glanced over as she approached. "May I join you?" Elaine asked, making a point of being polite, just as she'd always been taught. Didn't want to scare off potential allies by being rude, after all.

The girl nodded. "Of course. I'm Grace."

"Elaine."

"Nice to meet you, Elaine."

Elaine cocked an eyebrow. It was just a polite formality, of course, but it certainly wasn't 'nice' to meet anyone in the Games. It wasn't 'nice' that they were here, that they would be trying to kill each other in a few days. None of this was 'nice.' But, nonetheless, she felt the need to say something. "You, too."

"The circumstances could be better, of course," Grace agreed, as if she'd read Elaine's mind. "But, still, you have to admit there's a part of this that's … almost exciting. New people, new places, new experiences – it's almost an adventure."

"An adventure," Elaine repeated. "Maybe it is, but it's one I'd rather not take."

Grace nodded. "It's one I'd rather not take right now, as well."

"Right now?"

"Well, if you think about it, death is a path we all have to take eventually," Grace reasoned. "Maybe that's all it is, in the end – just another path. Just another adventure." Elaine's shock must have registered on her face, because Grace quickly backtracked. "Like I said, though, it's not an adventure I want to take anytime soon."

Elaine nodded warily. But she had already started to back off. Maybe this had been a mistake, coming over here. Maybe District Ten wasn't such a good choice, after all. "Well, it was … nice meeting you," Elaine said quietly before slipping away. Grace didn't try to stop her.

Once she was alone again, Elaine let out a small sigh. Grace was friendly enough, certainly, but Elaine wasn't ready to ally with someone who thought that death was just another adventure, just another fork in the road where thirty-five of them went one way, and one went another.

Then again, would it have been so bad to have an ally who didn't mind dying? After all, that was what her allies would have to do, anyway, if she was going to survive.

Elaine pushed the thought from her head. Someone who treated death so lightly might not have had any hesitation about killing her, either. After all, it was just another direction her path could take.

But it wasn't a direction that she wanted to go.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

That had definitely been the wrong thing to say.

Grace silently cursed her big mouth as she went back to swinging her makeshift blade. She would have to be more careful. She was used to her family, where discussions like that – discussions about life and death, right and wrong, their own lives and a greater purpose – were not only accepted, but rather commonplace. It was easy to forget that not everyone thought that way.

And not everyone _wanted_ to think that way.

And now she'd scared off a potential ally, the first tribute to approach her since training began. Maybe it was for the best – it was only a matter of time before something like that had come up – but it certainly didn't feel that way now. All that mattered now was that she'd been rejected, and she had no idea of where to go from here.

_So find someone else who's been rejected._

Grace glanced around from station to station, until she spotted the girl from Twelve at the fire-starting station. That caught her by surprise; the girl's district partner had been with her earlier. But now he was over at the spear-throwing station with the older boy from Twelve and one of the boys from Eleven. Was it possible he had abandoned her?

Mustering her courage, Grace headed over to the fire-starting station. "Mind if I join you?"

The girl looked up, surprised. "Fine with me. I'm Blythe."

"Grace." She sat down, and the two of them were soon occupied with trying to set fire to some dry leaves. "Harder than it looks," Grace commented.

"It's easier with matches," Blythe agreed. "But you can't always count on having matches."

Grace nodded. Matches would only come from the Cornucopia or from sponsors – sponsors who didn't usually flock to support tributes from Ten and Twelve. "How long have you been at this?"

Blythe shrugged. "Long enough to know that I'm not very good at it. Brennan's a bit better – he caught on quickly, so he figured he'd go try out a different station for a while."

"Then you're not … on your own?"

Blythe hesitated. "I'm not sure. Our other district partner, Francis, found an ally – the boy from Eleven – but I'm pretty sure they don't want me with them. So Brennan is … deciding, I guess. And there's not really any reason for him to pick me." She shook her head. "I'm not sure _I'd _pick me."

Grace held back one of her father's lectures on self-confidence. "What if it were 'us'?" she asked before she'd really had a chance to think it through.

"Us?" Blythe repeated.

Grace nodded. "If there were two of us – if we were allies – allying with us would be an advantage, as far as numbers go." Never mind that they were still fourteen years old. Never mind that neither of them had any sort of experience. And never mind that it meant she may very end up with two tributes from the smallest, poorest district as her allies.

Blythe thought for a moment. "Why would you want to help me?"

Grace thought through a few answers before deciding on the most honest. Words that had comforted her in the past. The answer her father would have given.

"Why not?"

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

"Why not?"

Blythe repeated the words, confused. "Why not? Maybe because we're in a fight to the death, and you want the best allies you can find. Maybe because you want someone who can actually help you fight. Maybe because you want to survive the next couple of weeks."

Grace nodded. "Of course I do. But so do you. So does everyone. But only one of us is going to get what we want. Only one of us can win."

Blythe cringed. She didn't need to be reminded. Silas had made a point of telling them practically every time he saw them that at least two of them were going to die. Maybe he was trying to be realistic, to slowly introduce them to the idea so that it wouldn't be so much of a shock when it happened. But that didn't make it any easier to hear.

It didn't make it any better.

Then again, nothing was going to. No matter what sort of mentor she had, no matter what sort of allies she managed to find, nothing was going to make the Games any better. Nothing was going to make them go away.

But, before she could respond, Brennan returned. He sat down next to Blythe, clearly frustrated. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Brennan shook his head. "I went over there to see if I could try to change their minds – about letting us join them."

"The other boy didn't want us?" Blythe asked.

"Actually, it was Francis. He doesn't like how easily we're playing along with Silas. He thinks we're immature. He doesn't think we're taking this seriously."

Now _that_ surprised her. "He said that?"

"No, but it was pretty obvious the other boy would've been okay with having us. Francis said…" He hesitated.

"Go ahead," Blythe said quietly, looking away. "I can take it."

Brennan bit his lip. "Francis said he was okay with me … but not you."

Blythe nodded. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd think about it," Brennan admitted.

Well, it wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no, either. "I found another ally," Blythe offered, trying to sound cheerful. "So if you join us, it'll be three. But if you'd rather go with Francis … I'd still have someone."

"And you'd be okay with that?" Brennan asked.

Of course not. But what choice did she really have? "I'd understand it," she nodded. Francis was older, stronger. So was his ally. Why would he choose her?

Brennan nodded. "That settles it, then."

Blythe looked away. "Fine. Go back to your new allies."

Brennan shook his head. "You misunderstood me. I meant that settles it: I'm staying with you."

"Both of us?" Grace asked hopefully.

Brennan nodded. "Both of you."

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

He'd made the right choice.

Brennan finally mustered a smile as he, Blythe, and Grace headed to the tables for lunch. He'd been avoiding the decision ever since Francis had told him he was only welcome as an ally if he left Blythe behind. He understood Francis' reasoning, of course. One younger tribute may have been tolerable. Two, in Francis' mind, would have been a burden.

But the fact that Blythe understood that, as well – and had been willing to let him go – had made up his mind. She wasn't as young and naïve as Francis wanted to think. She understood how the Games worked. She knew what Francis was looking for in an ally, and she knew she wasn't it.

And, the more Brennan thought about it, the more convinced he was that he wasn't, either.

If he had joined Francis and Lynher, he would have spent the whole Games – or, at least, as long as their alliance survived – feeling like the weakest link. Like the one the others might decide to leave behind – or even take out themselves – if things got a little rough. He would never have been able to stop looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was pulling his own weight, wondering if he was carrying enough of the load to be worthy of staying in their alliance.

But here, with these two, he didn't have to worry about that, because now _he_ was the oldest. _He_ was the one they would look to. He would carry his own weight, and then some, because that's what would have to happen in order for them to survive. He would be the one helping _them_.

Them. Three of them now. Brennan studied their new ally as the three of them sat down for lunch. He'd seen her before, on the first day – usually by herself. Her district partners were older – two boys, one seventeen and the other eighteen. She was in the same situation they were.

But was that enough for them to trust each other?

Brennan shook the thought from his head. Blythe trusted her; that was enough. For now, at least. There would be time – time for him to get to know her, to decide if he could really trust her.

But he already had a feeling the answer was yes. He had been watching them enough to know that Grace was the one who had approached Blythe. She had been comforting her when he'd returned. She seemed to genuinely care about Blythe, and that was good enough for him.

Only after Brennan had stuffed several mouthfuls of food down his throat did he realize that Grace wasn't eating yet, but standing in silence, staring at one of the walls. Almost as if she were staring _through _one of the walls. Blythe glanced at Brennan, who shrugged. Odd, but harmless, and it was probably better not to ask personal questions when they'd only been allies for a few minutes.

Brennan swallowed another mouthful of food. Maybe he didn't know much about Grace, but it wasn't as if he knew much more about Blythe. Sure, they came from the same district, but, a few days ago, they had been perfect strangers. If not for the Games, they may never have met. And yet here they were, drawn together for the worst reason – but maybe the oldest reason of all: survival.

But how long could they stay that way?

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

"What do you want?"

Corvo looked up as a boy slid into the seat across from his. District Eight, he was pretty sure. Corvo had seen him the day before, always on the edge of the group, always watching the others. Looking for targets, or looking for allies?

Maybe they were the same thing, in the end.

"What do you mean?" Corvo asked, trying to decide what to make of the boy's question.

"What do you want?" the boy repeated.

"What do I want to eat? What do I want to do after lunch?"

"What do you want?"

Corvo shook his head. "I want to be left alone."

"Is that what you really want?"

Corvo glared. "Yes."

The boy shrugged. "All right." He got up and started to leave.

Corvo watched him, confused. "Wait!"

The boy smiled a little. "Yes?"

Corvo shook his head. "I want what everyone here wants. I want to win. I want to live."

The boy nodded. "Go on."

"Go on?"

"Sure. After that, then what? What do you want?"

"I want to go home. I want to finish … something I started."

"What do you want?"

Corvo glared. "I want to find my parents' murderers. I want to see that justice is served. And I want to be there when it happens. I want my revenge." Maybe not the best thing to tell a perfect stranger, he realized after he'd said it, but what did he really have to lose?

"And then what?"

The question caught him off-guard. He'd never really thought about that before – about what he would do after he'd accomplished his goal. "After that, I … I don't know," he admitted.

The boy nodded. "I see. Would you like to join me?"

"Join you?" Corvo echoed, confused. The boy wanted to be allies based on one strange conversation?

The boy held out his hand. "I'm Fletcher. And I think we'd make a good team – along with a few others."

Corvo eyed him hesitantly. He hadn't really thought about allies; he'd assumed that he would be going it alone. But there was something about the boy – something that told Corvo not to get on his bad side. Not just yet, at least. Corvo nodded a little, then shook Fletcher's hand.

"Who else did you have in mind?"

* * *

**Viktoria Halisent, 16  
****District Seven**

"What do you want?"

Viktoria looked up from the axe she was swinging. "Pardon?"

The boy beside her smiled a little – the same mischievous smile she had seen so often on her brother's face. He stepped between her and the dummy she had been demolishing. "What do you want?"

"I want you to get out of the way."

The boy shrugged and stepped aside, allowing her to swing again. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want?"

What _did_ she want? She glanced around at the groups that were forming. She wanted company. She wanted an ally. She didn't want to be alone in the arena. But she didn't want to tell _him_ that. Unless…

Was he a possibility? She'd seen him talking to the boy from Ten earlier. Both of them seemed a bit strange, but they also seemed capable. And what did she have to lose by telling him? "I want allies – ones who know what they're doing, ones I can trust. Are you volunteering?"

"What do you want?"

"I just told you."

"Why do you want allies?"

"Because I want to win."

"Why? What do you want?"

"Why do I want to win?"

"Yes."

Viktoria eyed him skeptically. "Because I don't want to die?"

"What _do_ you want?"

"I want to live. I want to go back home to my brother."

"And then what?"

Then what? Even if she went home, things would never be the same. Everyone in the district would know her; their conning days would be over. Of course, they would never need the money again, but it had never really been about the money. It had been about the thrill. And, for better or worse, that was gone.

What did she want? "I want everything back," she admitted. "I want to go home, and I want everything back the way it was. I want to go back to my life as if the Games never happened – but that can't happen."

"What do you want?"

Viktoria glared. She wanted the impossible. She wanted to turn back the clock, to stop her name from being drawn, to send someone else – _anyone _else – to the Capitol in her place. She wanted her life back. She wanted it to be truly hers again, and no one else's. "I want…" She looked away. "I'm not sure."

The boy nodded. "Fair enough. But I can help with the first part. You said you wanted allies. Would you like to join us? Me and Corvo?"

Would she _like_ to? No. Absolutely not. They were odd – the pair of them – and this boy was as annoying as Saoirse and Jason – if not worse. But, at the moment, they were the best option she had.

"I would love to."

* * *

**Niles Avdeyev, 16  
****District Five**

"What do you want?"

Niles hoped his tone would be enough to scare away the boy who had joined him at the spear station. But, instead, the boy's face broke into an odd grin. "I was just about to ask you the same thing: What do you want?"

"What?" Niles asked.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to leave me alone."

"Is that what you really want?"

"No," Niles admitted.

"Then what do you want?"

"This is pointless."

"Yes, it is. What do you want?"

Niles glanced around, worried for a moment that someone might hear him. But that was pointless, as well. His family had already been arrested. Harakuise was planning to execute them. And he was about to be sent in the Games. What more could they do to him?

What did he have to lose?

"All right," he shrugged. "You want to know what I want? My family was arrested when I was reaped – if you can even call it that. The reaping was rigged – I'm sure of it – and they're all going to be executed when I die. I want them set free. I want to go home. I want them all safe."

"And then what?"

Niles smirked. "_Then_? Then I want the head of the monster that did this to them. I want Harakuise dead. I want the Peacekeepers dead."

"What else?"

Niles scoffed. "What _else_? Well, why don't you just kill the president and tear down the Capitol while you're at it? What do you _think_ I want? I want equality, like my father has always wanted. I want the power back in the hands of those who deserve it, those who won't abuse it, those who will use it to provide for everyone – not just those lucky enough to be born in the Capitol. _That's _what I want. Can you do that for me, Eight?"

The boy smiled. But not the same mischievous smile as before. A darker, deeper, and much more daring smile. "Thank you, Niles. I'd almost forgotten what one of your kind looks like."

"My kind?"

The boy nodded. "The kind of person who can see the bigger picture. The picture beyond the Games, beyond our own little lives." He held out his hand. "Janardan Fletcher, at your service. Though I'm sometimes known by a different name: the Robber Prince."

Niles wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream at him for so obviously mocking him. "The Robber Prince is a story."

"We're all stories, in the end."

"You're insane."

"Probably. Would you like to join us?"

Niles blinked. "Us?" He had found others willing to believe his story?

Fletcher nodded. "They don't know – who I really am, that is. But you – we're kindred spirits, you and I. Dreamers, radicals, willing to do things others aren't. I would be proud – honored – to have you at my side."

Niles stared. No one had ever told him that before – or anything of the sort. His family and what they stood for were, at best, ignored – at worst, scorned, mocked, ridiculed. And here was the Robber Prince – or, at least, someone delusional enough to believe he was the famous thief – saying he would be honored to have him at his side. Niles finally smiled.

"Then that's exactly where I'll be."

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

"Three tributes, and I have to agree to mentor the idiot."

Dennar looked away as Tobiah glared. "Now, Tobiah—" Crispin started.

"_Now Tobiah _nothing. Look at your tributes. Radiance somehow convinced a girl from District One that she'd be a good ally. Asteria ended up with the pair from Four – well, and a girl from Five, but no one's perfect. But, no. Dennar just _had_ to go and not just agree to an alliance with but _actively seek out_ the weakest and youngest tributes in the entire Games."

Dennar flushed. "Just because they're young doesn't mean—"

"Yes, it does!" Tobiah insisted. "You can take all of that 'we've all got an equal chance' nonsense and shove it out the window, kid. You're already at a disadvantage because of your own age."

Crispin shook his head. "I was only a year older than him when I—"

"But you didn't go around allying with twelve-year-olds! And from Three and Eight, no less. Tell me, Dennar, because I'm curious – are you insane, or are you just suicidal? What could _possibly _have possessed you to make you think that was a good idea?"

Dennar cringed. "I didn't mean to … I just … It just sort of happened, and I couldn't…"

"You couldn't say no," Tobiah finished. "But, eventually, kid, you'll have to. You'll have to say no, and, worse, you'll have to say goodbye. You think you're helping these kids by letting them be your allies, but all you're doing is prolonging the inevitable. How long do you think you'll be able to protect them? All you're doing is postponing their deaths a little longer."

Dennar hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He looked up at Crispin, who nodded encouragingly. _Say it._

"Isn't that what we're all doing?" he asked at last. "Postponing our deaths? Thirty-five of us, at least. All we're doing is lasting a little longer – a day, a few hours, a few minutes – than we would have otherwise. Anything we do in the Games … for most of us, it's not going to matter. Most of us are going to die, anyway. So if I can do that for them … Well, why not? If I'm going to…" He swallowed hard. "If I'm going to die, what's so wrong with dying trying to help someone?"

"What's wrong with it is that you'll be dying," Tobiah pointed out. "I agreed to be your mentor because I thought you wanted to live, not because you had some delusional ideas about dying with honor and dignity and all that rubbish."

"I do want to live," Dennar insisted. "But there are thirty-six of us. Chances are, I won't."

Crispin shook his head. "Don't start thinking like that, Dennar. Once you do, it's very hard to break the habit." He shot Tobiah a glance. "He still hasn't."

Tobiah whipped his head around, startled. "Excuse me?"

Crispin swallowed hard but held his ground. "Physically, you left the Games, but, mentally, you're still there. Still so worried about surviving that you haven't thought about living. Still convinced that you're not safe, that you can't trust anyone, that no one should trust you. You're right – it's a hard mentality to break. And, in its own way, it's worse than death." He turned back to Dennar. "If allying with twelve-year-olds is what keeps you from slipping into that mindset in the first place, then that's what you should do."

Dennar smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

Crispin nodded. "You're welcome. Tobiah's right about one thing, though. You won't be able to protect them forever. Eventually, they're going to die – and you have to be prepared for that."

Dennar looked away. Crispin was right. What he was trying to do, helping these two boys – it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, he would have to let them go.

He would have to say goodbye.

* * *

"_We all do what we do for the same reason: because it seemed like a good idea at the time." _


	21. Training: On The Line

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll if you haven't done so already. A new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

* * *

**Training Day Three  
****On The Line**

* * *

**Jason Vaz, 15  
****District Seven**

"Just the two of us, then, I suppose."

Jason nodded. Viktoria had left the breakfast table already, probably eager to spend more time with the allies she had found. The allies she seemed to consider a better option than the two of them.

"Maybe it's better this way," Jason offered, though he couldn't say exactly why, aside from the fact that he was fairly certain he could trust Saoirse. He planned to keep an eye on her, too, of course, but, with only two of them, that was reasonable. Any more might have been difficult to manage.

And it wasn't as if anyone had offered. The pair of them had spent the first two days alternating between the survival stations and the weapons stations, trying to learn as much as they could. They simply hadn't had time to look for allies, as well, and no one had come forward looking for them.

They must not have impressed anyone.

Jason turned his attention back to his breakfast. It didn't matter whether or not they impressed the other tributes. There were thirty-six of them, after all. Maybe it was better for both him and Saoirse if they faded into the background for a while. It wouldn't get them sponsors right away, but it wouldn't make them targets, either.

And he wanted to avoid being a target for as long as possible.

"Sometimes one ally is enough," Hazel offered encouragingly. "I only had my district partner, and that was enough to get me through the Games."

Jason smiled a little. If nothing else, they seemed to have Hazel's support, and the help of their mentor could mean even more than allies.

But that could only get them so far. If the sponsors didn't notice them, there wasn't much Hazel could do about it.

Viktoria, on the other hand, could pool her own sponsors with those of the rest of her group, so even if Hazel chose to help the two of them, instead, there were still three other districts whose mentors she could count on for help. "Do you think we should…" he started before dismissing it as a bad idea.

"What?" Saoirse asked.

Jason sighed. "Do you think we should ask Viktoria if we can join her alliance?"

Saoirse cocked an eyebrow. "You _want_ to?"

An understandable reaction, given how he'd reacted to Viktoria on the train. But the truth was that their chances might be better with a larger alliance. "It might give us a better shot," he offered, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

Hazel glanced up. "It's worth thinking about. Try training with them for a while. Get to know them a little better. Maybe it'll work; maybe it won't. It's not too late to keep your options open."

Jason nodded. The same advice she'd given before. But, sooner or later, it _would_ be too late. Sooner or later, they would have to decide.

He just hoped they made the right decision.

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

"So, the two of you, then?"

Cassandra looked up, surprised, as Luke sat down with them at the breakfast table. After ignoring them ever since the reaping, _now_ he wanted to talk? What was he playing at? Did he suspect that they were planning to kill him – or planning to have him killed? Was he trying to play nice so that they wouldn't?

"Yeah, the two of us," Cassandra nodded. They hadn't found any other allies. Not that they'd really been looking. Ryzer seemed delighted to have even one ally, and chances were that no one else would have taken either of them.

"Did you find any friends?" Ryzer asked. Cassandra barely noticed her sing-song voice anymore. Or her nasally, breathy tone. Or her eye patch. Or the fact that her hair nearly always hid about half her face.

It was amazing what someone could get used to without even trying.

Luke, on the other hand, was clearly uneasy around her. "Yeah, I've found some allies. One of the boys from Two, and the girl from Three."

Cassandra nodded. She'd seen them together. Why was Ryzer interested? Did she have some reason for wanting to find out more about his allies? Or was she simply curious?

Either way, it wouldn't hurt to play along. "The boy from Two – any training?"

Luke nodded. "Some. The girl, too, actually. And I've managed to convince them that I've trained a little, too."

Ryzer giggled. "_Once the Games begin to play, they will find out anyway._"

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Cassandra smiled; his discomfort was almost amusing. "What she means is that once the Games start, it won't take them long to figure out that you're not actually trained."

Luke's face reddened. "Vernon's trained me a little."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Sure. To do what? Lift car parts? Start a fire in the workshop furnace?"

He took the bait. "Knives mostly, actually, but we also spar with the spare parts around the shop. Pipes and things – and the basics are the same regardless of what sort of weapon you're dealing with. I know my fair share."

"As much as them?"

"More than them, I'd bet," Luke scoffed. "I'd bet the boy hasn't actually had that much training. And the girl – well, she looks like a model, so she'll be great with the sponsors, but I haven't seen anything that could be considered weapons skills."

Cassandra nodded. "That's a pity. Sounds like they won't be much use once the Games start."

Ryzer giggled. "Poor Luke. Whatever will he do?"

Luke shrugged. "Well, if nothing else, I can always do what Vernon did."

Cassandra nodded. She'd only been five at the time, but she remembered from the replays. Vernon had joined up with the Careers, only to turn on his allies during the bloodbath. If Luke was planning to do the same…

Cassandra glanced at Ryzer once Luke left. She was giggling gleefully. Apparently, she had been thinking the same thing.

Luke was going to regret his big mouth.

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

"Now, remember, let me do the talking."

Ryzer nodded agreeably. Cassandra could do the talking. She was content to watch. Watch as Luke's little alliance tore itself apart from the inside.

This was going to be so much fun.

They waited until the boy was alone. After maybe half an hour at the sword station, Luke and Natasha wandered off to try out some spears, leaving Dewan, the boy from Two, on his own. Cassandra and Ryzer waited until Luke was far enough away and not watching, then made their approach.

"Hello, Dewan," Cassandra said, smiling a little. "We need to talk."

Dewan glanced over at them, surprised. Then he made the connection. "District Six, right? Luke's district partners?"

Cassandra nodded. "That's right. And, actually, it's Luke that we wanted to talk to you about."

Dewan shrugged. "What about him?"

"You can't trust him."

"It's the Hunger Games," Dewan pointed out. "You can't trust anybody."

"Good point," Cassandra agreed. "But most of us aren't the killing sort until our lives are actually on the line. Some people, however, are actually plotting other people's deaths."

Ryzer couldn't hold in a giggle. The irony was too delicious. "_If in Vernon's steps he treads, Luke's allies will soon be dead._"

Dewan's face grew paler. Clearly, he knew what had happened during Vernon's Games. "I'm listening."

Cassandra leaned forward a little, her voice low. "We were talking this morning. He suspects that you're not as trained as you've tried to pretend."

"I _am _trained," Dewan insisted.

"Doesn't matter if we believe that," Cassandra shrugged. "What matters is that _he_ doesn't believe it – you or Natasha. He's planning to take you out, and hoping that will earn him a place in a _real _Career alliance."

Skepticism finally found its way onto Dewan's face. "Why would he tell you this?"

An excellent question, actually, now that she thought about it. Why _had_ Luke told them all this? Well, except the part about wanting a place in a real Career alliance – Cassandra had made that up. But Luke had been pretty frank about the rest. Why?

Cassandra shrugged. "Because he doesn't think we're a threat."

"And why should _I _trust you? Why would you tell me this? What do you gain from tipping me off?"

Cassandra smiled a little. "That's where we're on the same side – at least for a little while. If you strike first, it would benefit us both. You because you'd have the element of surprise – and he wouldn't be able to kill you first. Us because then Vernon will have to focus on us. And won't blame us for Luke's death."

"Sounds like you get a pretty good deal for doing practically nothing," Dewan pointed out.

Cassandra shrugged. "If you don't want to do anything about it, that's fine. It's your loss. Also your funeral, probably, if you let him go through with his plan. But that's not really our concern." She gestured to Ryzer. "Let's go. We've said what we wanted to say."

And they had. Maybe they hadn't convinced Dewan, but they had sown seeds of doubt. It was only a matter of time before they sprouted and grew.

Everything had been set in motion.

* * *

**Natasha Kovaćić, 16  
****District Three**

"Are you sure?"

Natasha eyed Dewan curiously. He shrugged. "No, I'm not sure. You can never really be sure of anything in the Games. And they've got every reason to want Luke dead … but that doesn't necessarily mean they're lying." He shook his head. "I just thought you should know."

"Or you're planning to do something about it, and you want my help," Natasha countered. The fact that he had told her meant that he suspected the girls were telling the truth. That he had his doubts about Luke. That he might be planning to strike first.

"How do you know I won't just tell Luke everything you told me?" Natasha asked. She had no particular loyalty to Luke, no reason to choose him over Dewan. But the reverse was also true. What did she owe Dewan? If she had to choose between warning Luke and siding with Dewan, what made him so sure she would choose him?

Dewan shook his head. "I don't. But I have to hope you have more sense than that. If you tell him, Luke will probably try to kill me, sure – whether he was planning to, anyway, or not – but then what? Which of us do you think would win that fight?"

Natasha thought for a moment. She wasn't sure about that one. Luke was older and stronger, but Dewan, she was convinced, had at least a little training. And, at the very least, he was thinking like a Career. If Luke had been as careless with revealing his plans as the girls had said, Dewan had the edge on intelligence.

Dewan leaned back against a pillar. "Okay, let me rephrase. What happens if I win? I know you tipped Luke off, and I come after you next. Believe what you will about Luke, but I don't believe for a second that you've got the training you say you do. You'd be my first target."

Natasha nodded. "And if Luke wins?"

"Then he's just rid himself of a valuable ally, and he's left with you. Then what? How long do you think he'll let you tag along with him, once the advantage of having a larger group is gone? And if they're right about him trying to earn a place in a better pack, he might kill you, anyway. Or make you his new group's first target."

Neither of those sounded like good options. "And if I don't warn him? If I help you, instead? If we…" She looked away. _If we turn on our ally? If we act on the word of a couple girls from District Six? If we kill him, before he can kill us?_

"Then we've proved to each other that we can be trusted – at least for a little while," Dewan offered. "It's not much, but it's better than waiting. Better than wondering every second whether he's going to turn on us."

Natasha hesitated. But part of her knew what she had to do. Part of her knew that she had to do _something_, that sitting back and waiting for her two allies to fight it out wasn't an option. She had to pick a side.

And why shouldn't she pick the side that wanted her?

* * *

**Saoirse Terris, 16  
****District Seven**

Jason's instincts had been right.

Saoirse shook her head as she and Jason walked away from Viktoria and her alliance. She had tried. Really, she had. But Viktoria and her allies – they weren't merely a team. They were an explosion waiting to happen. They were a time bomb.

And Saoirse didn't want to be anywhere near them when it exploded.

Not that there was any outright hostility in the group. Quite the contrary; they seemed to be getting along surprisingly well. But, beneath the surface, the tension was almost palpable. Fletcher, who seemed to be their leader, didn't seem to see it, but none of them actually wanted to work together. It was an alliance of convenience, and it wouldn't last.

But what alliance would, in the end?

Saoirse glanced over at Jason as they settled into a rhythm at the axe station. Their own alliance had come easily. There was a familiarity to it, a certainty, an odd trust that had already been formed. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, she felt protective of him already, as if one of her own brothers had, in fact, managed to volunteer and was with her now.

She tried to push the thought away. She couldn't afford to think of him as family. She couldn't afford to put him first – or even on equal footing with herself. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the boy beside her would have to die, if she was ever to go home to her _real _brothers.

But she didn't have to be the one to do it.

There were thirty-six of them, after all. Chances were, someone else would kill him before she had to. It was rare – although not unheard of – for the last two tributes standing to be from the same district. It had happened three times – once during the Ninth Games, again during the Eighteenth, and, most recently, during the Twenty-Third.

That seemed a bit many, now that she thought about it. But, then, math had never been her strongest subject. Maybe three out of twenty-four was just about right.

But it didn't seem like it.

Saoirse pushed the thought from her mind. If it came down to the two of them, she would deal with it then. Chances are, it wouldn't. And, as long as there was someone else to fight, the two of them could stand together.

Just like brother and sister.

* * *

**Daedem Luthra, 18  
****District One**

He didn't want to join any of them.

Daedem picked at his food, frustrated. He didn't want to be here. He wasn't interested in finding any allies. He'd already memorized as much useless information as he could about plants, animals, knots, fires, and some basic first aid. Ultimately, there was only so much room for all of it. What more was he really going to learn in the few hours he had left?

He wished they would just get on with it.

"You couldn't find anyone else, either?" asked a small voice.

Daedem looked up, surprised, as Elaine slid into the seat across from him. "Wasn't looking for anyone," he shrugged, quickly recovering. "I'll do better on my own."

"I won't," Elaine admitted dejectedly.

"What happened to the girl you were with the other day – District Ten?" Daedem asked.

Elaine looked up, shocked – maybe surprised that he had been paying attention to who she had been training with. "I … I think I blew it."

"How do you mean?"

"She said something … odd. And I … Well, I walked away."

Daedem shrugged. "So un-walk-away. There's still time."

Elaine shook her head. "She has other allies now."

"Sure. The pair from Twelve. They'll take you, too."

"How do you know?"

"Why wouldn't they? For all they know, you're a cold-blooded, stone-hearted killing machine."

"That sounds like an argument for _not_ wanting me as an ally."

Daedem chuckled. "I was kidding. No one's stupid enough to believe that. You tried to run away at the reaping, remember?"

Elaine glared. "Well, you were yelling, asking what you'd done to deserve this."

"Touché," Daedem agreed. "You're right; neither of us is Career material. Good thing they're not Careers. Just go ask them. What's the worst that could happen?"

"They could kill me," Elaine suggested morbidly.

"Not until the Games start," Daedem pointed out. "And without allies, you're as good as dead, anyway."

Elaine looked away, ashamed. Daedem shook his head. "I'm just kidding."

But was he? What chance did the little girl have, really, without someone to protect her? Part of him secretly hoped she would find someone.

Someone. But not him. He had to focus on himself. Focus on staying alive. He couldn't waste time worrying about what happened to some fourteen-year-old kid who would have to die, anyway, if he was going to make it home.

And yet here he was, giving her advice.

Probably best to get rid of her before she got the wrong idea. "Go on, then." He nodded towards the table where the girl from Ten and the pair from Twelve were eating. "Go ask them."

And she did.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

He didn't want to be the bad guy.

Lynher glanced over at Francis, who was watching his own district partners with something that was almost regret. "It's not too late to change our minds, you know," he offered. "We can still ask if they want to be allies. They'd probably say yes."

Francis shook his head. "That's the problem. It's 'they' now. Four of them, from the looks of it." He nodded towards the group, which now included not only his district partners and the girl from Ten, but the younger girl from One, as well. "It was one thing when it was just Brennan asking to join us, but all four of them…"

Lynher nodded. Francis was right – technically. But it still didn't feel right, just the two of them. He was used to having more people around. He was used to being … well, maybe not the center of attention, but certainly a part of the attention. A part of the focus. Here, he was just one more tribute. Just one more teenager who could be dead very, very soon.

He didn't want to be that.

"What about someone else, then?" he asked. Maybe if he suggested someone older, stronger, then Francis might agree.

Francis cocked an eyebrow. "Who did you have in mind?"

He hadn't had _anyone _in mind. He had just thought that, out of thirty-six tributes, there must be _someone _else who would want to ally with them. "How about District One?" he asked without really thinking. "The boy, I mean. He doesn't seem like a Career, but he's pretty strong, and it doesn't seem like he has any allies yet, and—"

"I get the picture," Francis nodded. He thought for a moment. "All right. Let's ask. What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could kill us?" Lynher offered with a small chuckle. Francis' expression turned grave, and Lynher knew it had been the wrong thin to say. "Probably not, though," he pointed out, trying to backtrack. "Against the rules and all – at least before the Games. And once we're in the arena – well, that's what everyone's trying to do, isn't it? Kill us, before we kill them. So it'd probably be better to have him on our side."

Francis nodded wearily. "Let's just … give it a try."

The pair headed over to where the boy from One was sitting. "Must be the place to come for lunch today," the boy mumbled.

"Pardon?" Lynher asked.

The boy shrugged. "My district partner was just here looking for advice about allies."

"I see you sent her to _my _district partners," Francis observed.

"District Twelve, then?" the boy asked.

Francis nodded. "Francis. And this is Lynher."

"Daedem."

"Since we're talking about allies," Lynher butted in. "We were wondering if you'd like to join us."

Daedem's expression went blank. Then, to Lynher's surprise, his mouth widened into a grin, and he nearly burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" Lynher asked, confused.

Daedem chuckled a little. "It's not you. It's just my mentor – well, one of my allies' mentors, technically – implied that the only way District Twelve would be useful was if the arena happened to be a coal mine." He shook his head, laughing wryly. "Well, maybe it'll be a coal mine this year." He finally stopped laughing long enough to say, "What the hell. I'll be your ally." He chuckled a little more.

"What have I got to lose?"

* * *

**Eigen Vallant, 14  
****District Three**

He hadn't realized how much he would miss having someone around.

Eigen stared out at the tables. Alasdair was happily chatting with his allies. Eigen had been perfectly fine with him leaving, of course. Who needed a shy little twelve-year-old as an ally? But the more time passed, the more he realized that, even if he didn't want Alasdair, he did want _someone_.

But who?

Almost everyone seemed to have found allies already. There were some larger groups, some smaller, and a few pairs, but he seemed to be the last one alone.

He didn't want to be alone.

"What do you want?"

Eigen whirled around. The voice belonged to one of the older boys, who was standing directly behind him. "What?" Eigen asked, puzzled.

"Exactly," the boy smiled. "What do you want?"

Eigen turned back to his lunch. He didn't have the patience right now to deal with lunatics.

"What do you want?"

What _did_ he want? He wanted an ally, but why? So that he could have someone to rely on? So that he could have someone to order around? So that he would have to worry about them stabbing him in the back?

Maybe it was better not to have any, anyway.

"What do you want?"

Eigen clenched his fists, determined not to give the boy the satisfaction of an answer. He tried to focus on his food, but the boy simply stood behind him, repeating the question every so often: "What do you want?"

Finally, he'd had enough. Eigen stood up as calmly as he could and turned to face the boy. "You really want to know what I want?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake politeness.

The other boy nodded solemnly. "I really want to know."

Eigen swung, his fist striking the older boy squarely in the jaw. Then he swung again. And again. But the boy didn't back off. He struck back, landing a punch on Eigen's cheek, another in his stomach.

By the time the guards came to separate them, Eigen's nose was bleeding, as was the other boy's cheek. Eigen flailed for a while before finally calming down enough to storm over to the spear station to take his anger out on a dummy, instead.

Only after a few minutes did he realize that he had been followed. The girl from Eight and one of the girls from Five were standing nearby, just waiting. Finally, the girl from Eight stepped forward.

"We'd like to talk to you."

* * *

**Shilo Chanteau, 15  
****District Eight**

"Are you sure?" Eigen asked.

Shilo nodded. "That's what he said. The Robber Prince. Probably thought no one else was listening." A small part of her felt bad for spilling Fletcher's secret, but if he didn't want people to know, he really shouldn't have said it in the middle of the training area where anyone who was listening could hear him.

And she had been listening.

"And you believe him?" Eigen asked skeptically.

Shilo shrugged. "Doesn't matter whether I do or not. Point is, the Capitol will be targeting him as soon as they find out – if they haven't already."

"If they're not targeting his alliance already because of _my _district partner," Mirami added.

Eigen chuckled a little. "I suppose that's why I didn't get in trouble for attacking him. I was a little disappointed, actually – wanted to see what they'd do."

"There's not much they _could_ do," Mirami pointed out. "We're already in a fight to the death. What more are they going to do to us?"

Of course, there was plenty the Capitol _could _do. They could make sure that their deaths were slow and painful. They could kill their families, their friends, their entire district. But no one said it. Mirami probably wasn't even thinking it. She was loving this entire thing, and, for that, Shilo envied her a little.

But only a little. Once the Games began, her Capitol-loving attitude wouldn't save Mirami forever. But, for now, it was useful. Shilo glanced at Mirami, who nodded encouragingly. _Go on. Ask him._

"We were wondering if you'd like to join us," Shilo offered.

Eigen raised an eyebrow. "Join _you_? Why?"

"Why not?" Mirami asked cheerily.

"Why _not_? Maybe because I've got enough to worry about without having to protect two little girls," Eigen shot back.

Shilo laughed.

Eigen's shocked expression told her that wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd been hoping to get a rise out of her, hoping to provoke her into saying or doing something stupid. Instead, she laughed it off and turned to Mirami. "Well, I guess we should go, then." The pair started to leave. "Not much else to do here if—"

"Wait!" Eigen called.

Shilo turned to face him again, smiling sweetly. "Yes?"

"I guess … I guess I'll let you join me."

Not quite what they had asked. But whether he joined them or they joined him, the result was the same. And maybe it was better, for now, to let him think that he was in charge. To let him believe they would follow him. "We'd love to," Shilo grinned.

She just hoped she hadn't made a huge mistake.

* * *

**Bakaari Reeves, 17  
****District Eleven**

"Just the two of us, then?"

Bakaari glanced over at Jazz as the two of them headed back to the hand-to-hand combat station after lunch. She was right; it was still just the two of them. He hadn't even really thought about trying to find anyone else. He'd been too focused on learning as much as he could.

And both of them _had_ learned a lot. Not that he felt ready to take on a Career single-handed or anything, but he had a good feel for a few of the weapons. A dagger. A mace. A club. Maybe he didn't know many of the finer points, but they felt good in his hands.

But he still couldn't imagine using them on a person.

"I guess so," he agreed. "Is that all right with you?"

Jazz nodded. "Probably better that way – not really getting to know anyone else."

She was probably right. A lot of the other tributes had been mingling, getting to know more and more people – even people who weren't their allies. Why? Wouldn't that just make it harder when they had to start killing each other? Wouldn't it be easier if the others were complete strangers?

Not that it would ever be _easy_, but he had a harder time picturing himself killing someone he knew. Jazz, or even Lynher. Maybe he could, if it came down to just them. But before then … he just couldn't imagine it.

Then again, he had a hard time imagining himself killing _anyone._

But he would have to, in order to make it home. In order to make it back to his sisters. In twenty-four years, only one tribute had made it out of the Games without killing, and the Gamemakers weren't likely to allow that to happen again. Not any time soon, at least, and certainly not during a Quarter Quell. Victors had to kill. That was simply the way it was.

So he tried to imagine it. The next time he swung his mace at the dummy, he tried to imagine that it was real. Tried to imagine he was actually swinging to kill. Breaking bones, ripping flesh.

The thought made him sick.

Jazz must have noticed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Bakaari lied. "Just a bit sick of all this, I guess."

Jazz nodded. "Me, too. I wish we were just in the arena already so we could get it over with."

Bakaari had to fight to keep from cringing. That was the last thing he wanted. As bad as waiting for the inevitable was, he knew that the Games themselves would be worse. He was in no hurry for the fighting to start.

He wasn't ready.

* * *

**Jazz Farnahm, 17  
****District Eleven**

She was ready.

Jazz took another swing at the dummy. Maybe not completely ready, but as ready as she was ever going to be. What difference were a few more hours of training really going to make? At some point, they might as well get on with it.

Get it over with.

Bakaari didn't seem so eager. Not that she was terribly surprised by that. He was enjoying the luxury of the Capitol. The food, the clothes, the beds, the warm water, the clean rooms. And even she had to admit, it was a nice change. But, in the end, the luxuries were simply distractions from the reality that they would be killing each other soon.

And she didn't need any more distractions.

Bakaari himself was enough of a distraction. A distraction from focusing on her own life. But he was a necessary one; she definitely didn't want to face the Games on her own. Not yet, at least.

Not yet.

But, eventually, she would have to. Everyone knew that any sort of alliance in the Games could only be temporary. And she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Bakaari would never be the one to break it off. He would never be the one to end the alliance.

So she would have to.

But not yet. She still had a while before she would have to think about that. Get through training. Get through the bloodbath. Get through the first few days of the Games. Then she could think about what to do about her ally.

Assuming they weren't dead already.

It was odd, now that she thought about it – how that hadn't even occurred to her. She had been assuming that she and Bakaari would survive. That, working together, they could make it through the first couple of days. But was that even true?

No. No, she couldn't afford to start thinking like this now. Couldn't afford to start second-guessing herself. They would survive. They had to. And that's all there was to it. Anything else was just a waste of time. No sense worrying about something that she had no control over. Not now.

Better to focus on something she _could _control.

But what? Now that she thought about it, so few things _were_ left in her control. Frustrated, she took another swing at the dummy. She wasn't used to feeling so helpless. So cornered. No matter what she did, it wouldn't really matter. So much depended on her ally, on the other tributes, on the audience, on the Gamemakers.

And none of them gave a damn about what happened to her.

* * *

**Francis Cooper, 17  
****District Twelve**

"Did I make the right choice?"

Francis studied Silas' expression, not quite sure what he was hoping for. Perhaps some hint of approval. Some sign that he had made the right decision to abandon Brennan and Blythe in favor of his two older, stronger allies.

He knew it shouldn't be bothering him. It wasn't as if he owed the two younger tributes anything. Wasn't as if he had promised to be their ally and then taken it back. He'd promised nothing. Hinted at nothing. He had no reason to feel bad about his decision.

And yet he did.

But maybe that was the very reason he had to stand by his choice. If he felt this bad about turning down his district partners as allies, how much worse would it have been to have them as allies, only to watch them die? Maybe it was better to sever ties now, so that when their faces appeared in the sky, the wounds wouldn't be as fresh.

That was, of course, assuming that it would be their faces, not his, that appeared in the sky.

"There's no such thing," Silas said at last, with a solemnity that Francis had never heard in his mentor's usually cheerful voice before.

"Pardon?" Francis asked.

Silas shrugged. "There's no such thing as 'the right choice' in the Games. Chances are, you did the necessary thing. But that's not always the same as the right thing. You're a tribute now, Francis; you don't have the luxury of doing the right thing."

Francis nodded. Silas was right, of course. The only way he was going to make it out of the arena alive was if he stopped worrying about doing the right thing and focused on doing whatever would keep him alive. And if that meant choosing his allies based on utility rather than sympathy, then so be it.

"What would you do?" Francis asked. A silly question, perhaps, since Silas had never been in this sort of situation. Unlike the other mentors, Silas wasn't a victor. He had never been in the arena. That put him – and his tributes – at a disadvantage. But, still, Francis was curious about what his mentor would have done in his place.

Silas thought for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "After the war, one of my first cases involved a couple from District Nine. They had two young children – a two-year-old girl who had been crippled in a raid and a seven-year-old boy. They'd all been arrested, but, in return for the parents' cooperation – pleading guilty, naming a few of their associates, that sort of thing – the Capitol was prepared to offer one pardon."

"Only one?" Francis asked.

Silas nodded. "One. That was the deal. I had to choose, Francis – had to choose who to save. The parents were adamant, of course, that I choose one of the children. For days, the little boy asked me – begged me – to choose the girl, instead. To let him die, if it would save his sister's life. But what sort of a life would she have had? How long would she have lived? Who would have taken her in? Would she have survived a week, a month?" He shook his head.

"You chose the boy, didn't you."

Silas nodded. "I did. And somewhere in District Nine is a man who will never stop hating me for what I did. But he's alive, Francis, because I made a choice. Was it the right choice? No. There is no right choice in a situation like that – or this. I did what I thought was best at the time, and now I have to live with it." He shook his head. "Does that answer your question?"

It did.

* * *

"_Sure is for people with nothing on the line. You and me? We just get on with it."_


	22. Private Sessions: Over the Edge

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Those with a fondness for small, fuzzy animals may wish to skip this chapter.

On a different note, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which tributes you think will make the final eight. Naturally, please vote for eight. This one will be up until the interviews _begin_, so if you want to wait until after next chapter to find out the tributes' scores, that's perfectly fine.

As with the bloodbath poll, this poll is not likely to have an effect on who will actually be _in_ the final eight. I use this mostly as a guideline to make sure the choices I've made are somewhere between believable and unpredictable.

* * *

**Gamemaker Sessions  
****Over the Edge**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

Dummies weren't good enough.

Helius took one last look around the room. That was the problem with training with dummies. They didn't think. They didn't react. They didn't fight back.

They didn't kill.

This year's room held no dummies. Helius giggled as he put up one final touch: a sign that read simply, "Kill the bunny!" Then he released the first one from its cage. Immediately, the furry little creature scampered over to the edible plants station, where it hid behind a pile of berries and started munching away.

But hiding wouldn't save it forever.

* * *

Daedem came in, took one look at the sign, and started laughing. After a moment, however, he realized that it wasn't a joke. He shrugged, looked around for the rabbit, and quickly found its hiding place.

Catching it proved to be more of a challenge. It was a good five minutes before Daedem finally cornered the rabbit, spear in hand. He struck quickly, but it was only a glancing blow, wounding the creature in the leg. It took a second blow to finish it off. "Bastard," Daedem muttered as he left, although it was unclear whether he was referring to the rabbit or to the Head Gamemaker.

Helius shrugged and released another rabbit.

* * *

Elaine couldn't hide the look of horror on her face as she read the sign, but she quickly recovered. Fists tightly clenched, she headed for the weapons area and chose a small knife, then set out to find the rabbit.

She was quicker than her district partner, and soon caught the little creature, but, in doing so, dropped the knife. As she reached for the knife with one hand, the rabbit squirmed out of the other, and the chase began again. The second time, Elaine was more careful. She grabbed the rabbit with her left hand, and, after only a moment's hesitation, stabbed it with the knife.

The blow didn't kill it, however, and Elaine backed away, tears in her eyes, as the rabbit began squealing. After a moment, she mustered the courage to step forward again and finish the kill, but then ran out of the door, still crying.

* * *

Henri didn't even look for the rabbit. She simply headed for the edible plants station and began sorting. When she'd finished that, she sorted some insects, tied a few knots, and started a decent fire.

While she sat there, nursing the flame, Helius crept up behind her with the rabbit in his arms and promptly dropped it in her lap. Henri squealed in surprise, dropping the bunny, which quickly hopped away. "What did you do that for?" she demanded.

Helius shrugged. "I wanted to see what you'd do if a killer bunny attacked you during the Games," he offered. "I guess I've got my answer."

After Henri had left, Helius took the bunny and placed it in a box on the Gamemakers' table.

* * *

Dewan read the sign, gathered a handful of throwing knives, and chose a position a good ten paces away from the rabbit. After only a moment's hesitation, he threw the knife. He missed by a few inches, and the rabbit scampered off. Undeterred, Dewan threw again. And again.

Once he'd used all his knives, he patiently gathered them all up again and started over. This time, he hit the rabbit with the second knife, wounding it in the thigh. With the rabbit injured, Dewan easily closed in and finished the job, then quickly turned and left the room.

* * *

Adrian shot Helius a look that clearly read, "You've got to be kidding." But, when Helius simply smiled back, Adrian rolled his eyes and began searching for the bunny.

He found it quickly, cornered it, and, gripping one of its legs in his hand, headed for the weapons station. There, he chose a club, held the rabbit in place on the floor, and quickly bashed its head in. "Happy now?" he asked Helius sarcastically.

And he was.

* * *

Simone frowned when she saw the sign. "I'd planned on demonstrating survival skills," she admitted.

Helius shrugged. "So pretend you have to kill the bunny in order to survive."

Simone said nothing, but chose a knife and went after the rabbit, zig-zagging back and forth until she finally caught it in one hand and drove the knife into its heart with the other. Slowly, she stood up, still shaking, and headed for the door. "I guess you get to live today," Helius giggled.

* * *

Alasdair read the sign and quickly headed for the knot-tying station to gather some rope. Within minutes, he'd made a simple snare. Then he placed some berries nearby and headed to the other side of the room to watch.

Within minutes, the rabbit hopped over, sniffed at the berries, and tripped the snare, which caught it by the leg. Alasdair quickly chose a knife and headed back to his snare. The rabbit was wriggling madly, trying to break free. Alasdair knelt down, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

Then he cut the rope.

* * *

Eigen barely glanced at the sign before heading over to catch the bunny, completely unfazed. After chasing it around for a while, he finally managed to corner it near the sword station. He lunged forward and quickly caught the bunny, wrapping his hands around its neck.

Helius assumed the boy would go for a weapon, but, instead, Eigen simply squeezed. Harder and harder. The bunny struggled for a moment, but, soon, it went limp. Eigen dumped the body on the floor and stormed out the door.

* * *

Natasha ignored the sign. And the weapons. And the survival stations. She simply took a seat, cross-legged, on the floor in the middle of the room. Then she looked up at Helius, staring. Unmoving.

Helius stared right back.

She didn't move. Not even when he came over and dumped the bunny in her lap. Her eyes never left him. Finally, he shrugged and told her that her time was up. Without a word, she got up and left the room.

Helius dumped another bunny into the box on his table.

* * *

Barclay pretended not to see the sign and headed straight for the weapons. He swung a sword around, threw a few spears at the wall, then, finally, started throwing knives – away from the rabbit.

Helius hopped down from his chair, quickly caught the rabbit, and placed it in front of Barclay. Barclay hesitated a moment, but then headed for the plants station, gathered some berries, and started throwing those at the rabbit, instead. After a few minutes of this, the rabbit was covered in berry juice, but still very much alive.

After Barclay had left, Helius deposited the berry-stained bunny into the box with the others.

* * *

Kinley took her time reading the sign, but finally decided she couldn't stall any more. She took off after the bunny, which quickly sprinted away. For a while, she simply chased it, staying a fair distance away. Helius cocked an eyebrow. Was she trying to impress him with her endurance and patience, or just hoping to prolong the inevitable?

Finally, she caught the rabbit – then let it go and started the chase over again. After about fifteen minutes of catching and releasing the rabbit, she finally caught it again. The rabbit, exhausted, barely struggled as she reached for a knife and quickly slit its throat.

* * *

Calissa raised an eyebrow when she saw the sign, but quickly headed for the knot-tying station, where she fashioned several ropes into a decent net. Soon, she had caught the bunny, then tied a noose around its neck and strung it from the ceiling.

Then she reached for some throwing knives. Soon, the pincushioned rabbit dangled limply from the rope, blood dripping onto the floor. Calissa finished by severing the rope with one of her knives, letting the blood-soaked rabbit crumple in a heap. Then she turned to Helius, forced a smile, and waited for him to dismiss her.

* * *

Niles was glaring as he entered, and his frown only hardened when he saw the sign. "No way in hell," he muttered before simply walking out.

* * *

Mirami read the sign, nodded crisply, and gathered an assortment of small weapons: knives, boomerangs, a blowgun, and a slingshot. Quickly, she clambered up to the top of the ropes course and began throwing. At first, none of her shots came anywhere near the bunny, but, finally, she grazed it with one of the darts from her blowgun.

That slowed the bunny down, and, soon, she was hitting her target. Finally, a knife stuck in its neck, dropping it, and Mirami clambered down to finish the job. Then she turned to Helius, gave a little curtsy, and left.

* * *

Mercury looked as if she might burst into tears when she saw the sign, but, after a moment, she collected herself and put on a smile. "All right, then," she muttered. "Bunny, bunny, who's got the bunny." She made a show of looking around for the rabbit before finally going after it.

Despite this, she caught it rather quickly, holding it close to her chest until it stopped squirming. At last, she chose a knife, and, doing her best not to look, drove it into the rabbit's fur. It let out a squeak, and she nearly dropped it, but, instead, she stabbed it again, harder this time, and the rabbit finally went limp.

There were tears in her eyes as she left, but the deed was done.

* * *

Luke quickly chose a sword and went after the rabbit. After chasing it around for a while, he cornered it and began slashing. His first stroke missed, but the second tore into the rabbit's side, and the third lopped off its head.

Luke glanced around, clearly not in a hurry to be finished. But there weren't any more rabbits, so he simply swung the sword around for a while, then chose an axe and started swinging with that until Helius told him he could leave. Helius smiled a little. He liked an overachiever.

* * *

Ryzer nearly squealed with delight when she saw the sign. She quickly found the rabbit, caught it, and slammed its head against the floor, killing it. Helius cocked an eyebrow. She'd had practice. Real practice. This wasn't the first time she'd killed an animal.

But she didn't stop there. She scurried over to the fire station and quickly built a small fire, then roasted the rabbit and sat down to eat. When she'd eaten most of the rabbit, she made her way over to the Gamemakers' table and offered Helius the remaining leg.

He was still munching on it as she left.

* * *

Cassandra smiled a little when she saw Helius chewing on what remained of the rabbit and realized what her district partner had done. Not about to be shown up, Cassandra quickly caught the rabbit, grabbed the bucket of water that Helius kept by the fire station in case of emergencies, and plunged the rabbit into the water.

For a moment, it squirmed and thrashed, trying to free itself. But, finally, the drenched little body went limp. Cassandra pulled the rabbit from the bucket, chopped it into little pieces, and dumped the diced rabbit back in the bucket along with some berries and herbs.

Helius didn't eat any this time. He had standards about how well his meat should be cooked.

* * *

Jason raised an eyebrow when he saw the sign. "Really?"

"Really," Helius nodded.

Jason shrugged. "Okay." Knife in hand, he took off after the rabbit. He quickly caught it, but apparently decided that was too easy. He let it go again, gave it a head start, and resumed the chase. After doing this several times, he grabbed the rabbit in one hand and his knife in the other, and quickly finished the creature off.

Then he turned back to Helius, smiling a little. "Got any more?"

* * *

Saoirse chased the rabbit for a full fifteen minutes. "Time's up!" Helius called with a shrug.

"No, please, give me a little more time. I can do this!" Saoirse insisted. Helius nodded, and she kept chasing. It took her almost five more minutes, but she finally caught the rabbit, and, not wanting to waste any more time, quickly slit its throat.

"Thank you," she managed to say, still out of breath, but a smile of satisfaction creeping over her face. "Told you I could do it."

Indeed, she had.

* * *

Viktoria cringed when she saw the sign, but quickly chose a few smaller throwing knives and headed over to where the rabbit was hiding. Her first throw missed, as did the second. The third grazed the rabbit's tail as it scurried off, but, for the fourth, she anticipated better, and struck the bunny in the side with the blunt end of the axe.

For a moment, the rabbit was too dazed to run away, and Viktoria used that to her advantage, hurrying over and slicing off its head in one stroke. Then she stepped back, staring, her expression a mixture of disgust and relief that it was over.

But the real test was far from over.

* * *

Enzo grew pale as he read the sign, but he quickly headed for the edible plants station and chose some berries. Then he sat down and tossed a berry towards where the rabbit was hiding. After a moment, it came out, sniffed the berry, and took a nibble. Enzo tossed another – a little closer. The rabbit inched closer. Soon, the creature was right in front of him.

Enzo clenched his jaw, bracing himself to grab the rabbit. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then shook his head, got up, and left the room.

Helius hurried over and injected the rabbit with an antidote for the poisonous berries Enzo had been feeding it. Then he dumped it in the box with the others.

* * *

Fletcher walked in, read the sign, and burst out laughing. Without a moment's hesitation, he headed for where the rabbit was hiding and quickly cornered it. Then he picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the door.

For a moment, Helius thought he was simply going to walk out with it, but, instead, Fletcher set the rabbit down and shooed it out the door. "Have fun catching that," he remarked with a grin, took a deep bow, and followed the rabbit.

Helius giggled for a moment before turning to one of the other Gamemakers. "Well," he said with a shrug. "Go and get it."

After about twenty minutes, the rabbit was sitting in his box on the table.

* * *

Shilo had clearly grown impatient while the Gamemakers rushed about trying to find the missing bunny, but she put on a smile as she entered. The smile faded, however, when she read the sign. She quickly masked her surprise, however, and headed for the knives.

The first one missed the rabbit. So did the second and the third. Frustrated, Shilo chased the rabbit around the room, finally cornering it. Then, at point-blank range, she finally managed to hit it with one of her knives, wounding it but still not managing to kill until she finished the job with another one.

When she turned back to Helius, however, her smile was back. "Just remember – it's not the time that it takes to finish the job that matters. It's the result."

She had a point.

* * *

Dennar stood perfectly still for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. Perhaps giving himself a silent pep talk. Then, silently, he tucked a small knife in his belt and headed after the rabbit.

It didn't take him long to catch it, but, for a while, he simply sat there, cradling it in his arms, deciding. Stroking its fur. At last, he reached for the knife. Looking into the rabbit's eyes one more time, he whispered, "Goodbye."

Then he slit its throat.

* * *

Asteria studied the sign for a moment as if completely confused. At last, she chose a knife, headed over to the fire-starting station, and began whittling a piece of wood. By the time her fifteen minutes were almost over, she had whittled a passable rabbit.

Grinning, she showed it to Helius, then took the knife and sawed through the wooden figure's neck.

Once she was gone, Helius burst out laughing. "Points for originality," he giggled, then placed the lucky bunny in the box with the others.

* * *

Radiance closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and read the sign again. A disappointed look crossed her face; perhaps she had been hoping it would have disappeared. But it hadn't, so she quickly chose a knife and took off after the rabbit.

It didn't take her too long to catch it, but it was squirming so much that it took her three tries to finish it off. The third time, she closed her eyes, stabbing as hard as she could. The rabbit twitched for a moment, then went completely still.

Only then did she open her eyes.

* * *

Corvo hesitated for a moment, considering. Debating. At last, however, he chose a knife and went after the rabbit. He caught it quickly, then drew the knife swiftly across its throat, killing it instantly.

Then he simply turned and left. No show. No fuss. Helius smiled and called after him. "Thank you for not wasting my time!"

* * *

Hogan took his time cornering the rabbit, circling it again and again, almost taunting it. Finally, he reached out and grabbed it, then held it for a while. After a moment, Helius realized he was feeling its pulse. Searching for arteries. He probably knew where they were on a human, but a rabbit was unfamiliar.

Undeterred, Hogan reached for a knife, and carefully made three small cuts. Then he released the rabbit, which took off immediately, leaving a trail of blood. Within minutes, the little creature had bled out, leaving Hogan with a satisfied smile and Helius with a rather messy floor.

* * *

Grace read the sign, blinked, and then read it again. After a moment, she took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and chose a small dagger. Then she headed for the edible plants, chose a few berries, and held them out in her hand.

For a minute, she sat there. Then five. Then ten. Finally, the rabbit came out of hiding, its nose twitching. Grace let the bunny eat a few of the berries. Then, choosing her target with care, she drove the dagger into the rabbit's heart, killing it instantly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Helius shrugged as she left. She could be as sorry as she wanted, as long as she got the job done.

* * *

Lynher studied the sign for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"

Helius shook his head. "Perfectly serious."

"You want me to kill a rabbit."

"Pretend it's another tribute, if it helps," Helius shrugged.

Lynher seemed to grasp the irony. He picked a knife, chased the bunny for a few minutes before catching it, and slit its throat quickly before he had a chance to second-guess himself. Then he tossed the knife aside and left without looking back.

* * *

Bakaari hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed a scythe and went after the rabbit. At first, the bunny was too quick for him, dodging every swing. But, after a while, it began to tire, and, soon, it was too exhausted to keep up the pace.

But Bakaari hadn't tired. He swung again, this time slicing deep into the rabbit's flesh. A second swing took off the creature's head, and a third sliced its body in two. Only then did Bakaari seem to realize what he had just done, and stared for a moment before hurrying out the door.

* * *

Jazz clenched her fists when she saw the sign, but quickly spotted the rabbit at the fire-starting station and went after it. It was gone before she could catch it, however, and she spent the next five minutes chasing it around the room, growing steadily more frustrated.

When she finally cornered it, she didn't hesitate. She lunged, grabbed the little creature, and, with one good twist, snapped its neck. Then she tossed the dead rabbit down at her feet and turned to leave.

* * *

Brennan stared at the sign, bewildered. "Is this what you do every year?" Clearly, he was imagining piles and piles of dead bunnies buried behind the training center.

Helius shook his head, still puzzled by the fact that dead bunnies would disturb people more than dead humans. "Nope, this is a first. What do you think?"

Clearly, he thought it was terrible. But he didn't say so. Instead, he grabbed a knife, chased the rabbit for a while, and finally caught it. Gritting his teeth, he looked away and stabbed the bunny through the chest. At last, he stood up.

"I think it's good practice," he admitted in a shaky voice.

* * *

Francis looked like he might say something. Like he _wanted_ to say something. Perhaps how childish this whole thing was, how silly it was to ask him to go after something so completely defenseless as a rabbit in an attempt to demonstrate how he would kill something that fought back.

Apparently, though, he thought better of it. He chose a knife and quickly caught the rabbit. He hesitated a moment before finishing it off, but finally stabbed it through the heart with the blade. Then he stood up, tossed the rabbit aside, and left without a word.

* * *

Blythe swallowed hard when she saw the sign, but slowly approached the rabbit. It sprinted away, but she soon had it cornered. In one quick move, she scooped it up in her arms, only to realize she didn't have a weapon.

She held the rabbit tightly as she headed over to grab a knife. But, once she had, she hesitated. Waited. Studied her prey. Then she closed her eyes, a few tears escaping. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't."

Helius nodded and added the last rabbit to the box.

* * *

**President Richmond Hyde**

He had never seen such confusing numbers.

Hyde studied the page again, thinking perhaps he had misread. How had the boy from Four scored so low? How had the tributes from Six scored so high? "Care to explain this, Helius?" he asked.

Helius shrugged and gestured to a box full of rabbits. "I was tempted to just give everyone who spared their rabbit a zero and everyone who killed it a ten, but, in the end, I felt I should add a little variety."

Hyde cocked an eyebrow and glanced inside the box. "How many…?"

"Nine," Helius answered. "A rather fitting number, perhaps. Three times three. Three spared in weakness, three in compassion, and three in defiance."

"Defiance," Hyde repeated. Not a word he liked to hear. "The three on my list?"

"Two of them."

"And my third?"

Helius shook his head. "Turns out your third's a killer. Of course, if I really wanted to find out who would kill when their life was on the line, I would have picked something a bit deadlier than a rabbit. But we couldn't exactly risk a tribute dying before the Games begin." He shrugged. "This was enough to give me an idea, though."

"An idea of who will die quickly?"

Helius smiled a little. "An idea of who will break."

* * *

"_You never know what you're gonna find when you look over the edge of what's known and into what's not."_


	23. Training Scores: Consequences

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **As one reviewer noted, no real bunnies were harmed in the writing of the previous chapter. Please do not send PETA after me. (Or Peeta, for that matter.)

Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final eight" poll on my profile if you haven't already. A new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

Since people keep asking (and one was a guest reviewer, so I couldn't exactly reply), there will be four more chapters (_not_ including this one) before the Games. That's three chapters of interviews and one night-before-the-Games chapter. So we're close. Very close.

* * *

**Training Scores  
****Consequences**

* * *

**Cornelius Juniper  
****Hunger Games Host**

Every year, there were a few surprises.

Cornelius glanced once over the list of names and numbers. Every so often over the past twenty-one years, he had considered asking Helius exactly what the tributes did during their private sessions. But, in the end, he knew, it didn't really matter. The numbers didn't really matter. Once the tributes were in the arena, all that mattered was what they did in there. The past would be gone, the slate wiped clean, ready for a fresh start.

But, for now, the slate needed a few numbers. He flashed a smile at his daughter as the numbers counted down in front of him. _Three. Two. One._

"Hello, and welcome back to the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games! Tonight, we have some very important information, straight from the Gamemakers themselves. Each of the tributes has been evaluated and scored based on their performances today for the Gamemakers, and, finally, they get to see the fruits of their effort! So, without further ado, let's begin with District One!"

* * *

**Scarlet LaFleur  
****District One Mentor**

_Daedem Luthra, with a score of eight._

_Elaine Willis, with a score of five._

_Molly Saunders, with a score of one._

Scarlet clapped Daedem on the back. "Not bad! That's only one less than my score."

Daedem shrugged. "Don't get excited. Normal year, regular Careers, I'd barely scrape out a six. But _someone _has to score high, and there aren't very many legitimate Careers this year."

He was right, of course. The scores were adjusted. They had to be; the audience wanted to see _some_ high scores, even if the tributes earning them couldn't live up to the same standard as regular Careers.

Elaine seemed content with her score, which wasn't bad for a fourteen-year-old, after all. Henri shrugged as if she'd been expecting hers. Jade sighed.

"At least it wasn't a zero."

* * *

**Vester Pierce  
****District Two Mentor**

_Dewan Rutledge, with a score of eight._

_Adrian Mors, with a score of nine._

_Simone Lorance, with a score of six._

Vester tried to offer Simone an encouraging smile. "Hey, a six isn't bad. Talitha, that's what you got, wasn't it?"

Talitha nodded. "It was."

"But you weren't trying to convince your allies to let you stay in a Career pack," Simone pointed out. "I probably got the lowest out of the four of us."

Vester nodded. Certainly lower than Adrian's nine. "True, but we already knew that. Nothing's changed."

Simone nodded reluctantly, but Vester knew she'd been hoping for more. She'd been hoping for a score that would convince Calissa and Hogan that she was worth having as an ally.

Now she would have to do that convincing during the Games.

* * *

**Miriam Valence  
****District Three Mentor**

_Alasdair Bryant, with a score of two._

_Eigen Vallant, with a score of five._

_Natasha Kovaćić, with a score of zero._

Miriam cocked an eyebrow. Not exactly what she had been expecting. Alasdair's score was normal for a twelve-year-old, and as long as Eigen had been able to stop moping and actually try to impress them, she wasn't particularly surprised that he'd managed to pull a five. But a zero? She'd never seen the Gamemakers give a zero before. "Something you'd like to share, Natasha?"

Natasha was still staring at the screen in disbelief, as if she, too, hadn't believed that they'd actually do it. "I thought … I figured my family's history would get me something. I was aiming low so I wouldn't get targeted, but…" She trailed off, but the rest was obvious. She had been aiming low, but not _that _low.

How was she going to explain this to her allies?

* * *

**Misha Brimmer  
****District Four Mentor**

_Barclay Mattison, with a score of two._

_Kinley Arnoult, with a score of seven._

_Calissa Hart, with a score of ten._

"Just my luck," Misha muttered. "Just _my _luck. I get the guy who looks like a Career but fights like a teddy bear."

Naomi glared. "We offered you your choice of tributes. You didn't have an opinion then."

Misha waved his hand dismissively. "Not to worry. Doesn't matter, anyway. It's not like his allies are about to boot him out of the pack like Calissa's might have if she'd turned up with such a lousy score. Kinley's not about to abandon her district partner, now, is she?"

Kinley shook her head. "Of course not."

Misha shrugged. "Then who cares what your scores were? All you've done is convince everyone you're not a threat."

Calissa rolled her eyes. "He's not."

Misha smirked. "See?"

* * *

**Sabine Plecity  
****District Five Mentor**

_Niles Avdeyev, with a score of zero._

_Mirami Fiyan, with a score of six._

_Mercury Helix, with a score of five._

Sabine nodded. Not bad. Not amazing, but not bad. District Five wasn't known for high scores, after all – even among their victors. Harakuise and Tania had both scored fives. She'd scored a one, herself. But even she hadn't managed a zero.

Harakuise smiled smugly. "The second zero tonight. Wonder what Niles and the Kovaćić girl have in common."

Sabine shrugged, and Niles didn't seem inclined to answer. He was sitting at the table, staring off into the distance, not even watching the screen. Clearly, he didn't care about his score. Mirami, however, offered Mercury a high five, which Mercury hesitantly returned.

Harakuise was watching Mirami closely, a strange look on his face. At last, he spoke. "Niles, may I speak to you alone?"

* * *

**Vernon Barrow  
****District Six Mentor**

_Luke Marsanskis, with a score of nine._

_Ryzer Hijore, with a score of nine._

_Cassandra Sake, with a score of nine._

Vernon watched as the two girls started congratulating each other, not at all fazed by their trio of high scores. Vernon shook his head. Luke's score made some sense. He was one of the older, stronger tributes. There weren't many proper Careers to compete with. If _someone _had to score high, it made sense that it would be him. Vernon had pulled a nine himself, earning a place in the Career pack.

But the creepy girl with an eye patch and the girl who was clearly ill? What had they done to impress the Gamemakers? Vernon nodded to Luke, who followed him into the next room. "Watch out for them," he advised.

Luke nodded silently. Clearly, he was just as surprised. They had both written off the two girls as non-threats. Had they been wrong this whole time?

Was the real danger closer than they had assumed?

* * *

**Hazel Birnam  
****District Seven Mentor**

_Jason Vaz, with a score of seven._

_Saoirse Terris, with a score of six._

_Viktoria Halisent, with a score of seven._

Hazel watched, satisfied, as Jason and Saoirse exchanged congratulations. Viktoria's expression, however, was impossible to read. "What's wrong?" Hazel asked. "A seven is pretty impressive."

Viktoria shook her head. "It's not that. Really. It's my allies. I figured I might get the lowest score, but Niles got a zero. What if…?"

She didn't say it, but Hazel understood. What if the rest did, too? Would that make them targets, and her along with them? Would that make her _their _target?

Hazel shook her head. "Let's wait and see what the other two got."

* * *

**Lander Katz  
****District Eight Mentor**

_Enzo Farnese, with a score of two._

_Janardan Fletcher, with a score of zero._

_Shilo Chanteau, with a score of five._

"Perfect," Lander muttered. "Just perfect. You and your ally from Five can go have a zero party together. If that doesn't paint a target right on your backs—"

"It might not," Carolina offered. "If the others think they're not a threat—"

Lander shook his head. "Don't give me any of that. It's nonsense, and you know it. A two is 'not a threat.' Enzo is 'not a threat.' Anyone who saw Fletcher and the kid from Three fighting the other day knows he didn't get a zero by being 'not a threat.' So what'd you do? Steal their spoons?"

Fletcher shrugged. "Stole a bunny."

"I fed it berries," Enzo offered helpfully.

Even Carolina didn't have anything hopeful to say about that.

* * *

**Crispin Zephyr  
****District Nine Mentor**

_Dennar Viesennor, with a score of five._

_Asteria Cordey, with a score of three._

_Radiance Allor, with a score of five._

"Not bad," Crispin nodded.

"I take back what I said earlier about your allies, kid," Tobiah muttered. "Apparently, everyone else's are just as bad. Or worse," he added with a pointed look at Radiance. "Whoever heard of a girl from One getting a one? It's ridiculous. What did she do? Take a nap?"

"So it's okay that my allies scored low?" Dennar asked hesitantly.

Tobiah shrugged. "Twelve-year-olds always score low. And at least none of them got a zero. So that's something."

Not much, but it was something.

* * *

**Glenn Chester  
****District Ten Mentor**

_Corvo Arion, with a score of seven._

_Hogan Graham, with a score of ten._

_Grace Sawyer, with a score of five._

"Well, you all blew my score out of the water," Glenn offered, earning a smile from Grace. "And Hogan, that's tied for the highest score all night. And Corvo, that's tied for the highest in your alliance."

"The others weren't much to beat, apparently," Corvo shrugged. Two of his allies had scored a zero, which was clearly worrying him. But he quickly changed the subject. "Nice job, Grace."

Grace nodded. "You, too. Both of you."

Glenn smiled. They _had _done well. But whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

* * *

**Elijah Whitaker  
****District Eleven Mentor**

_Lynher Palmieri, with a score of six._

_Bakaari Reeves, with a score of eight._

_Jazz Farnahm, with a score of eight._

Elijah nodded, satisfied, as Lynher breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't an amazing score, but it was enough. It was average, and sometimes average was good.

Lynher turned to his district partners. "Nice job, both of you."

Jazz didn't acknowledge the compliment, but Bakaari smiled. "Thanks. You, too."

Elijah smiled a little as they all turned back to the screen. There wasn't much else to say. Three good, solid scores was quite the relief. He just hoped their good luck continued.

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

_Brennan Aldaine, with a score of six._

_Francis Cooper, with a score of six._

_Blythe Ayers, with a score of two._

An arched eyebrow was all the acknowledgement Francis gave that his fifteen-year-old district partner's score was equal to his own. Brennan's attention, for his part, was on Blythe. "I couldn't do it," Blythe whispered, trying hard not to let the others see her cry. "I just couldn't do it."

Brennan wrapped an arm around her. "It's okay. Really, it's okay. You didn't get a zero, so they must have been impressed by _something _you did."

"He's got a point," Silas agreed. "They haven't exactly been shy about handing out lower scores. You must have done something right. And that gives you something to build on."

Blythe dried her eyes. "You think so?"

Silas grinned. "Absolutely."

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

His heart was pounding.

Harakuise waited until everyone besides Niles had left before allowing a smile to slip onto his face. It was almost as if he was in the Games again. His muscles tense, the adrenaline racing, the blood pumping. Confidently, he took a few steps towards Niles, who rose from the table in response. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Niles asked wryly.

Harakuise smirked. "Oh, yes. I'm very sure. We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I made you a generous offer."

"Offering to free one person isn't a generous offer when _you're _the only reason they were arrested in the first place."

"I was hardly the reason. Your family's never exactly been discreet regarding your feelings about the Capitol. I consider myself merely a messenger."

"A tool."

"An instrument, if you like. The point is, with or without me, your family would be facing execution – possibly even sooner, if I were not directly involved. You may have me to thank for a little of the borrowed time you've been living on."

"I'm supposed to be grateful that you've postponed their execution so you can toy with me?"

"You're supposed to be grateful that I offered to spare your sister's life. But, clearly, you're not."

Niles scoffed. "What gave it away?"

"The steak knife you have hidden beneath your right sleeve," Harakuise suggested. "If you mean to use it, then get on with it. But know that, in doing so, you're forfeiting your family's lives – and your own."

"My life was already forfeit," Niles growled. "You know rebels don't make it out of the Games alive."

Harakuise shrugged. "I should know. A young man named Zione Brink would agree with you."

"Is that a name I should know?"

"Absolutely not. His name is long forgotten. And yours will be, too. History is written by the victors, Niles, and, sadly for your family, if they are remembered at all, history will see the Avdeyevs as the villains."

A strange determination crept over Niles' face. "Well, then. Who am I to argue with history?"

And he lunged.

Weaponless, Harakuise dodged the first blow. And the second. The third grazed his side, and he made a show of overreacting, then trying to recover his dignity. "Is that the best you've got?" he called.

It wasn't. Niles took the opportunity to charge forward, and Harakuise didn't have time to dodge. The pair of them tumbled to the floor, and Harakuise braced himself for what he knew was coming. What had to happen. The two rolled over each other for a moment, but Harakuise made sure that Niles came out on top. He struggled enough to make it seem convincing, but Niles quickly pinned him. Knife in hand, he grinned down at Harakuise. Harakuise glared back and caught Niles' hand as it plunged down towards his chest, redirecting the blow a few inches to the left.

Pain erupted in his chest as the blade pierced deep, but not fatally. Niles drew the blade out and prepared to strike again, but, at that moment, the door opened, and a dozen men in uniform rushed in. The noise drew Tania and Sabine, as well, and both rushed to Harakuise's side as the guards restrained Niles. Mirami and Mercury quickly followed, and Harakuise caught a glimpse of Mirami's horrified expression.

Then he blacked out.

* * *

"You're an idiot."

Harakuise smiled a little as Tania's face came into focus. "If I were an idiot, I'd be dead. Everything went according to plan."

"Plan?" Tania demanded. "He stabbed you!"

"Yes."

"You _wanted_ him to try to kill you?"

"Wanted? No. Planned for? Yes." He grimaced and decided against trying to sit up. "It was only a matter of time before he made an attempt. Better for it to happen on my terms. The guards will see that he doesn't get a second chance."

Tania shook her head. "That doesn't explain it. If you'd just told them you _suspected_ he was going to try to kill you, they could have put an armed guard on him day and night. He never would have gotten a _first _chance. Instead, you let him take a shot at you. Why?"

"Why not?"

"Is this about his family? If you'd wanted to make sure they'd die, why offer to free his sister?"

"It's not about his family."

"Then what _is_ it about?"

"Mirami."

That caught Tania off-guard. "What?"

"I need to speak to her. Please."

Reluctantly, Tania did as he asked, ushering a tired-looking Mirami through the door. Harakuise shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think about the time. It must be—"

"Three in the morning," Tania offered.

Harakuise winced. "Sorry."

"Couldn't sleep much, anyway," Mirami admitted. "What do you need?"

Harakuise shook his head. "Actually, this is about what _you_ need." He glanced at Tania, who took that as her cue to leave. "You need an angle," Harakuise continued after she had gone. "And I just gave you one."

"I don't understand."

"Niles – he tried to kill me. How do you think the audience will react when they find out?"

"They'll hate him," Mirami concluded immediately.

Harakuise nodded. "Exactly. He's just painted a huge target on his back. Everyone who wants the sponsors' attention in the arena is going to go after him. So you have to make sure you get there first."

"You want me to kill Niles?"

"No, _you_ want you to kill Niles. He'll be expecting the other tributes to target him, but he might not expect it from you. So far, you've done nothing to make him think you're a threat."

"But he's—"

"Older? Stronger? Yes, he is. But, between you and your allies, you should be able to bring him down."

"He has allies, too."

Harakuise shook his head. "Not after tonight, believe me. Once word gets out about what he's done, the others will want to get as far away from him as possible – if they don't target him themselves."

Mirami nodded. "Okay. I'll do it."

Harakuise smiled. "Good girl."

Mirami started to leave, but, after a moment, turned back. "Did you … did you do all this for me?"

Harakuise shook his head. "Not just for you – although if it saves your life in the process, all the better. But, to be honest, I did it for all of District Five. For District Five as I want it to be – united and strong. I need you to show the Capitol that Niles doesn't speak for all of us – or even most of us. Show the Capitol – show the district – that he and his family stand alone."

Mirami nodded. "I will."

* * *

"_I made a decision, and now I must face the consequences."_


	24. Interviews: The Language of Hope

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First, the results of the "final eight" poll are up on the blog.

Second, there's a new poll on my profile. This is the one that **will **have an effect on the Games. This time, I'm asking which tribute(s) _you_ would sponsor. This isn't who you think _will_ get sponsors; this is who _you_ would choose if you were a sponsor in the Games. Maybe you like Careers. Maybe you root for the underdog. Maybe you like clever tributes; maybe you like tributes who tug at your heartstrings; maybe you like a good villain. You choose. Feel free to vote for as many as you like.

As I said, this poll will have an effect on the Games. The top two or three tributes will, at some point during the Games (assuming they survive the bloodbath) receive a sponsor gift. What and when are my choice, but they will get _something_. These may not be the _only _tributes who receive a gift, but this is the only way to ensure that they _will_.

If one of the top few tributes happens to die in the bloodbath, their gift will pass to an ally, a district partner, or, if neither of those is an option, to the next-highest-scoring tribute in the poll.

This poll will be up until the Games begin, so if you'd like to wait until after the interviews to see which tributes make an impression there, feel free to do so.

* * *

**Interviews Part One  
****The Language of Hope**

* * *

**Terence Willis, 18  
****Brother of Elaine Willis**

He had to keep hoping.

Terence held Ava close as both of them waited impatiently for the interviews to begin. The two of them were seated on the floor, far away from their parents. As much of an act of defiance as the pair of them could muster.

It was their parents' fault. Their fault Elaine wasn't prepared. She'd wanted to join Terence in training to become a Peacekeeper, but they had said no. Several times. Of course, training to be a Peacekeeper was different than training for the Games, but it would have been something.

Still, her five in training gave him some hope. She must have picked up some useful skills in order to earn even an average score, because she'd had absolutely none a week ago. All their parents had taught her was how to set a table properly, how to sit like a lady, how to dance at a party.

Useless.

Except right now. For these next few minutes, when appearances were crucial, she had the skills she needed. At last, she took the stage expertly, daintily, wearing a long, pale yellow gown with thin straps. She spoke softly, sweetly, answering Cornelius' first few questions with ease. Finally, he turned the topic to her family.

"So, Elaine," he smiled, leaning forward. "I hear you have a few brave defenders of the peace in your family. Is that right?"

Elaine smiled sweetly. "My father's the Head Peacekeeper in District One, yes. My brother is in training, as well, hoping to follow in his footsteps. He even gave me his Peacekeeper tags for my district token." She held them up to show the audience.

"He must be very proud of you," Cornelius agreed.

Elaine smiled shyly. "I hope so. I know I'm proud of him."

The words brought a lump to Terence's throat. He was proud of her, of course. But she had no reason to be proud of him. The moment he had caught her at the reaping, everything had changed. He had grabbed his own sister and dragged her to the stage to face her death, and he'd done it without a second thought.

That very afternoon, he'd quit his training. His father had been able to see to it that he wasn't punished for leaving, but that was the last time they'd really spoken. If Elaine came home, maybe the rift could be healed, but until then…

Terence watched as, all too soon, his sister's time was up, and the other girl took the stage, wearing a blue velvet dress and black shoes. She was doing her best to smile, but it was easy to tell she was uncomfortable as she took her seat across from Cornelius.

Cornelius, for his part, did his best to help her out. A few questions about the district, a few questions about her family. "So, Henri," he said at last. "Are you excited to be part of the very first Quarter Quell? After all, there are surely many people in your district who are envious of this opportunity."

Henri hesitated. Anyone who was watching could tell she wasn't the least bit excited. "Of course I'm excited," she agreed. Then, after a slight pause. "Well, maybe excited isn't the best word. But I'm … curious."

"Curious," Cornelius repeated. "Please, go on."

Henri leaned forward a little. "My father always says that the best way to get to know someone is to fight them – make them angry. That's when you see the real person. Well, I've never been in that sort of fight before – not really. So I guess you could say I'm curious about what's going to happen when I am – what I'll find out about myself."

Terence shook his head. From the sound of it, her father and his would get along just perfectly.

After a few more questions, Henri's time was up, and the boy took the stage, wearing a green button-down shirt with a wide silver collar, black pants, and silver boots with buckles down the sides.

"So, Daedem," Cornelius grinned. "Tell us about life back home. What do you do back in District One?"

Daedem shrugged. "A little of this and a little of that. What do you do when you're not interviewing teenagers on the way to their deaths?"

Cornelius looked uncomfortable, unsure whether that had been meant as a joke or not. After a moment, however, he shrugged it off. "A little of this and a little of that," he returned. "But I'm sure the audience doesn't want to hear about silly old me. Tell us about _you_. What's your family like?"

Daedem scoffed. "Make up your mind. First you want me to tell you about myself, and then you want to hear about my family. What's my family got to do with anything? Why do you care about them? Are they going into the arena? I don't think so. Mind you, I wish they were, instead. _I _certainly don't want to be here."

Terence smiled in spite of himself as Cornelius fumbled for a moment in an attempt to help the boy save face. But Daedem simply wouldn't play along. Terence shrugged. He was only saying what the other two had surely been thinking. Now that he thought about it, Elaine probably wished _he_ was in the Games instead of her. With his Peacekeeper training, he'd surely have a better chance.

Terence shook the thought from his head. Elaine had a chance. She had to. She had to come home.

It was the only way to fix what he'd done.

* * *

**Annabelle Mors  
****Mother of Adrian Mors**

She had to keep hoping.

Annabelle watched, still as stone, as the first three tributes came and went. They were so different. So different from District One's typical Career tributes. Smaller. Weaker. Easier targets.

Or maybe she was simply seeing what she wanted to see. Annabelle fought back a wave of guilt as she remembered that somewhere in District One – and somewhere in each of the other districts, as well – were three mothers who wanted their children to come home as badly as she wanted to see Adrian again. The others were competition, yes, but they were also children. They had their own loved ones who were waiting anxiously to see them on the screen.

What made Adrian's life any more important than the lives of their sons and daughters?

He'd wanted this, after all – years ago. He'd wanted to train, wanted to volunteer. Not for the chance to kill, but for the chance to prove himself, to make a better life for the two of them. Mortimer had denied him that chance, but now he had it, anyway.

But was it still what he wanted?

Annabelle forced her attention back to the screen as the girl from Two took the stage, wearing a long, silver, strapless dress and matching silver shoes. Cornelius greeted her warmly, and the girl smiled a little, but it was a cold smile. Indifferent.

She didn't warm up much as the interview went on. "So, Simone," Cornelius smiled warmly, trying to thaw the atmosphere. "I hear your mother's the mayor. That must be very exciting."

Simone shrugged. "We haven't really spoken in years – not until she came to say goodbye." Annabelle wasn't particularly surprised by that; she hadn't even realized the mayor _had_ a daughter. Not that she'd ever been interested in politics; she was more concerned with putting food on the table.

"That must have been a very emotional moment, then," Cornelius reasoned. But it was clear he was grasping at straws now. It was hard to picture the girl next to him having _any _sort of emotional moment.

Simone shook her head. "We didn't say much – just went our separate ways. I suppose if I win we'll see each other now and then – the mayor and the victor. Has a nice ring to it."

Annabelle shook her head. Maybe she'd been tough and impatient with Adrian at times, but she'd never been distant. She'd never ignored him. She couldn't imagine going years without speaking to him. She had barely managed for the last few days. If he never came home…

No. No, she couldn't start thinking like that. Not now. He had to come home. He deserved it. They deserved it. This girl's parents might not even notice she was gone. She didn't want to think about what she would do without Adrian.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the younger boy took her place, wearing a dark blue suit and pants. Unlike the girl, he was all smiles. Eager. Prepared. Or, at least, pretending to be.

Pretending very well.

"So, Dewan, are you feeling ready for the Games tomorrow?" Cornelius asked with a grin.

Dewan nodded quickly – a little too quickly. "Sure am, Cornelius. To be honest, I was planning to wait a few more years; they usually choose eighteen-year-olds to volunteer – figure they'd be the most prepared. But there's something exciting about being in a Quarter Quell, even if it's not quite what I'd planned."

"So are you saying you were planning to volunteer, that you've been training?"

Dewan nodded. "Of course. Most of us in Two – we dream of volunteering. But so few of us get the chance. So, now that I've got it, who am I to complain about a year or two one way or the other? I'm here, and I couldn't be happier."

Annabelle sighed. Part of it was true; so many teenagers _did_ dream of volunteering. So many young people wasting their lives. And for what? Most of them already had more than enough. For them, life as a victor wouldn't be much of a step up from the lives they already had. Adrian had seen the Games as a chance for a better life. Most of them were just in it for the thrill, the excitement – not the long-term results.

Maybe that would give him a better chance.

Annabelle realized she was holding her breath as the other boy left and Adrian took the stage, wearing a light blue button-down shirt, a dark grey jacket, and grey pants. Where Simone had been cold and Dewan had been enthusiastic, Adrian was simply present. Silent until Cornelius asked him something, then ready with his response almost immediately.

"So, Adrian," Cornelius smiled. "A nine in training – Why don't you tell us about that?"

"There's not much to tell," Adrian admitted. "I haul rocks for a living, so I'm pretty strong. I guess that made an impression."

"Do you think your experience will help you in the arena?"

Adrian arched an eyebrow. "If the arena's a rock quarry, sure." The audience's laughter caught him off-guard; he hadn't meant for it to be funny. But he recovered quickly. "It probably will. I've never killed a person, but I dropped a slab of rock on a cat once. Accidentally, of course, but … well, killing is killing, and that's probably more experience than most people have."

Annabelle nodded. She remembered that day – three years ago. What Adrian hadn't told the audience was that he had come home raging, furious that the cat had gotten in the way, angry with himself for being so careless. He hadn't taken it well then, and he wouldn't now, but he was older now. More in control. He could handle it.

He would have to. He had to come home.

She didn't know what she would do without him.

* * *

**Janice Fletcher, 12  
****Friend of Alasdair Bryant**

She had to keep hoping.

Janice sat on the couch with her parents and her little brother, watching the screen intently. She'd seen the interviews before, of course; she'd been watching the Games with her family longer than she could remember. But this year was different. She'd never known anyone in the Games before. But, as sorry as she felt for Alasdair, she couldn't shake another feeling: a feeling of relief.

She was still relieved that it wasn't her.

She'd been terrified at the reaping, despite everyone telling her how rare it was for a twelve-year-old to be chosen. She'd never taken tesserae. She'd had only one slip in the bowl.

But so had Alasdair.

But she had to keep hoping that maybe he could beat the odds again. Maybe he could come home. It had been more than twenty years since a twelve-year-old had won, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen. He had a chance.

He had to.

Janice's parents held her close as the girl from Three took the stage, wearing a beautiful, tightly-fitted, green dress. Cornelius didn't waste any time commenting on it. "Well, Natasha, you look very beautiful tonight."

Natasha batted her eyelashes playfully. "Why, thank you, Cornelius. I've been saving it for an occasion just like this."

Cornelius let out a good-natured laugh. "You don't say. It _is_ quite an occasion, isn't it. You're the fifteenth member of your family to take part in the Games, am I right?"

"That's right, Cornelius," Natasha agreed.

"Quite a record, if I may say so. But there's another record you're hoping to break, isn't there."

"Yes, there is. We've had fourteen tributes before me – but no victors. I'm hoping to break that streak."

Janice shook her head. She wondered how Cornelius didn't get sick of it – everyone saying they were hoping to win. Of course they were. Every tribute who had sat onstage for the past twenty-five years had been hoping to win. But only twenty-four had. And this year would only add one to the total.

One out of thirty-six.

Janice forced her attention back to the screen as Alasdair took the stage, wearing a dark brown pinstripe suit which was probably an attempt to make him look older. It wasn't working. Alasdair was already fidgeting with the buttons as he sat down next to Cornelius, avoiding eye contact with both him and the cameras.

Cornelius made the best of it, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that Alasdair hated the attention he was getting. Every question was awkwardly turned into a compliment about how wonderful the Capitol was, how excellent the food was, how delightful it was to meet the other tributes.

At last, Cornelius managed to turn the conversation back to District Three. "So, Alasdair, is there anything you'd like to say to your family back home?"

At last, Alasdair glanced up at the cameras. "I'd like to say … Don't give up on me. Because I haven't."

The lie cut through Janice like a knife, because it was obvious from his expression that he _had_. He had given up. He wasn't saying hello; he was saying goodbye. To his family. And to her.

"And Janice," Alasdair added, surprising her. "Thank you for … for being my friend. It meant a lot."

Janice brushed a few tears from her eyes as her parents held her tighter. She hadn't even been a very good friend. She talked to him, yes, but the conversations had always been about her. Her problems, her troubles, the news she wanted to share. She knew so little about him in return.

And yet he considered her a friend. Maybe his best friend. Worth saying a personal goodbye to in front of all of Panem.

She didn't deserve that.

Janice was still crying as the other boy took Alasdair's place, wearing a dark green suit, a scowl planted firmly on his face. No goodbyes from him. No words of thanks. All of his focus was on the Games.

"So, Eigen, you earned the highest training score in your district this year. Anything you'd like to tell us about that?"

Eigen shrugged. "Not sure what you want to hear about it, Cornelius. I beat out a twelve-year-old and a girl who earned a zero. Not much of a competition, if you ask me."

Cornelius leaned forward a little. "So you don't think much of your district partners, then?"

Eigen scoffed. "Well, I wouldn't say that. There is one thing I think they'll be much better at."

"And what's that?" Cornelius asked.

Eigen shrugged. "Dying."

Janice ran to her room and slammed the door. He was right. He was rude and cruel, but he was right. What chance did Alasdair have against people like him? People who were willing to kill. People who were _eager _to kill.

Janice buried her face in her pillow. He had to have a chance. He had to. He had to come home.

She had to tell him she was sorry.

* * *

**Felicity Cambray, 19  
****Friend of Kinley Arnoult**

They had to keep hoping.

Felicity, Mariah, Jaqueline, and Carolene had gathered at Felicity's house, as they always did to watch the Games. But this year was different. For the past few years, the tributes had been people they had known a little. Acquaintances. People they had seen once or twice around the training center. But no one they knew well. And, for as long as they could remember, volunteers. People who had wanted to be there.

Kinley had never wanted this.

None of them, in fact, had ever seriously considered volunteering. They'd never bothered to enroll with any of the private trainers. They'd simply gone to the center, played around with the various weapons on their own, with an instructor occasionally wandering over to give them advice if he or she had a little free time. Nothing serious. Nothing committed.

In fact, for the last year, Felicity herself had been too old to volunteer, even if she'd wanted to. So had Carolene. But they'd accompanied their friends to training, anyway, because it was fun. Because it was something to do.

Now it was something that might save Kinley's life.

Felicity and her friends all huddled closer together as District Four came on. The other girl from Four took the stage first, wearing a light sea-green ball gown and blue high heels. She took her seat next to Cornelius confidently, already smiling – a fierce, determined smile, looking every inch a Career.

Cornelius grinned back. "So, Calissa, a ten in training. You must be very proud."

Calissa shrugged. "Numbers are just that – numbers. Two of us got tens. And how many tributes with tens have actually won in the past?"

Cornelius made a show of pretending to count on his fingers. "I believe it's been four."

Calissa nodded. "Exactly. Ask me again when I'm sitting next to you after the Games – after I've made it five – and _then _I'll be proud."

She had a point. Tributes had won with tens. But tributes had also won with twos and threes – and once with a one. Low scores didn't mean anything once the tributes were actually in the Games.

Still, she and her friends had been relived to see that Kinley had managed a seven. Of the five of them, she'd never shown the most promise during training, but, evidently, she'd picked up more than they knew.

Either that or the other tributes were even worse.

Soon, Calissa's time was up, and Kinley took her place, wearing a light blue, puffy dress, with white frills that gave the impression of sea foam. She was smiling – a warm, friendly smile, nothing like Calissa's fearsome determination. Kinley's smile, as always, was welcoming, inviting, familiar.

Felicity was happy to see it again.

"So, Kinley," Cornelius grinned. "May I assume from your seven in training that you've had at least a bit of training on the side?"

Kinley smiled sweetly. "I've had my share. Never thought I'd be picked to volunteer, really, so it's quite an honor to be here."

Cornelius nodded. "That it is. Tell me, have you known any of the tributes from your district in the past few years?"

Kinley nodded. "Actually, I knew the girl last year – Aurora. We weren't close, but we'd met at school. Seen each other occasionally at the training center. I didn't really know her much before the Games, but I … I really admired the way she fought, the way she treated her allies. When Elijah left the pack, she was the only one who was convinced that he was coming back – that maybe he had gone to scout the area and gotten lost or something. She trusted him, and even though that sort of trust got her killed … it was admirable."

Felicity nodded. She had no doubt that Kinley had already found a group of tributes she would trust with her life. Whether or not those tributes deserved her trust … well, that was another matter. But Kinley would trust them to the bitter end, nonetheless.

Soon, her time was up, and the boy from Four took her place, wearing a black tuxedo and a big smile. He greeted Cornelius warmly, even pumping his arm up and down after offering a handshake. Felicity smiled a little. Was this one of Kinley's allies?

Soon, she had no doubt that, yes, he was. He was exactly the sort of person Kinley would latch onto immediately – warm, friendly, funny. Soon, he and Cornelius were both laughing – laughing about the Games, about the two he'd gotten in training, about what he must have done to get it. The boy joked that the Gamemakers must not have appreciated his creativity.

"Well, I guess you'll show them," Cornelius laughed. "Speaking of creativity, this being a Quarter Quell, it's safe to assume that the arena will be a bit more creative than normal. What would you do for an arena, if you were in charge?"

Barclay grinned. "Well, I quite enjoyed our chariot costumes this year, so maybe a pirate ship. Or more than one pirate ship, and tributes would have to swing from one ship to another on ropes. And there could be fish and turtles and sharks and maybe a giant octopus."

Cornelius smiled. "Sounds like an arena that would favor District Four."

Barclay shrugged. "Well, you asked me what _I'd_ do, and I suppose I've got a little bias there."

Cornelius laughed. "Well, I suppose we can't blame you for that."

Felicity smiled a little. She almost hoped that _was _close to what the Gamemakers had in mind. It was certainly true that there had been arenas that favored one district or another before. A field. A farm. A forest. But there had also been arenas that were seemingly random. An airport. A school. A carnival. Last year had been a seaside village, so it was probably too much to hope for that the arena would be water-themed again.

Felicity shook her head, trying to convince herself that it didn't really matter what the arena was. Yes, the arena had an effect, but most of the killing was done by the tributes themselves. The tributes were the ones to worry about.

Felicity could only hope Kinley was as worried about them as she was. That she would be ready if it turned out her allies weren't so trustworthy, after all.

Yes. Yes, she would be ready. She had to be. She had to come home.

She had to come back to her friends.

* * *

"_The Universe speaks with many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust."_


	25. Interviews: The Language of Strength

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's our second batch of interviews. Not much else to say this time.

* * *

**Interviews Part Two  
****The Language of Strength**

* * *

**Metisse Avdeyev, 14  
****Sister of Niles Avdeyev**

She had to be strong.

Metisse clenched her fists tightly, watching the screen through the bars of her cell. The Peacekeepers had separated them shortly after arresting them; she hadn't seen her father or her brother Nyran in days. And Niles … He was as good as dead already.

Chances were good, of course, that they were all as good as dead. Niles being reaped couldn't have been a coincidence. Nor was it coincidence that the three of them had been arrested moments later, and that they were still alive. They hadn't been killed yet. Hadn't even been condemned yet.

They were waiting. Waiting for Niles to die. Then they would follow.

Metisse swallowed hard. She wouldn't cry. That was what they wanted. That was why they had separated her from her father and brother. They wanted to break her. They wanted to break all of them.

But she wouldn't give them that satisfaction. She would die first. Probably quite literally.

Her father had always told them not to be scared – not to hesitate to give their lives if their cause was just. But, now that it came down to it, she _was_ afraid. But not just of dying. She was even more afraid – terrified, even – that she was dying for nothing.

Because what would their deaths accomplish, in the end? The four of them would simply serve as examples to frighten the rest of the district. Examples of what happened to those who dared to speak out against the Capitol.

That was all they had done, after all. Speak out. They hadn't killed anyone. Hadn't attacked anyone. They'd protested, but they didn't have much of a following. They weren't really a threat. Weren't really a danger.

Maybe that was why they had to be stopped _now_, before they _became _a threat. Metisse nodded. That was it. The Capitol wasn't frightened of what they were now, but they were frightened of what they might _become_, given the right amount of time.

So they wouldn't be given that time.

Metisse looked up as District Five came on and the younger girl took the stage, wearing a gown of shimmery black silk. Metisse couldn't help remembering how the girl had skipped to the stage, grinning, at the reaping. But she wasn't smiling now. Not even a little.

Neither was Cornelius, whose attitude had suddenly grown serious – almost somber. "So, Mirami, most of us have already heard about the unfortunate incident last night. But why don't you tell us – in your own words – what happened?"

Mirami nodded solemnly. "You have to understand, I didn't see most of it. We had all gone to our rooms – all except Harakuise and Niles. I heard a … a noise. When I ran out to see what it was, I saw … I saw men pulling Niles off of Harakuise. He had a … a knife. And there was blood. It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened – that Niles had tried to kill Harakuise."

Metisse stared. Niles had tried to kill Harakuise? Obviously, he hadn't been successful, or the girl wouldn't have said 'tried to.' But the fact that he had even made an attempt filled her with pride. Realizing that he was going to die, anyway, Niles had set his mind on accomplishing something. Whether or not he had succeeded, he had let them know that he wasn't going to go quietly.

And neither would she.

Cornelius was shaking his head. "Such a terrible experience. Do you have any idea what might have come over him?"

Mirami shook her head. "He was probably scared – plain and simple. Maybe he thought that after he killed Harakuise, he could get away – try to escape. He was a coward. It's as simple as that."

Metisse clenched her teeth. Her brother was _not _a coward. He was braver than the rest of them combined, because he had _done_ something. Something that said, "No more. We will not give in. We will fight back."

If only others had the will to follow.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the other girl took the stage, wearing a lilac-colored dress, a light blue sweater, and a pink bow in her hair. She, at least, was smiling, which seemed to lighten the mood. "So, Mercury," Cornelius nodded. "Would you give us your opinion on what happened last night?"

"I didn't see much, either," Mercury admitted. "I'm just glad he's all right. After everything he's done for District Five – after everything the Capitol has done for us through the victors – it would be terrible for him to die so senselessly."

"Then you agree that it was a senseless act – that he had done nothing to provoke this madness?"

"Of course it was senseless!" Mercury agreed immediately. "He's a victor. A mentor. He's here to help save our lives. Not my life, personally – Sabine's my mentor – but the life of someone from District Five. And everything he's done back in the district – helping the orphans, the homeless, punishing criminals. He's a hero."

Metisse glared. Were their mentors coaching them, or did they honestly believe all of this? Did they actually see Harakuise as the hero? Metisse clenched her fists tightly, waiting for Niles to come and set the record straight.

There was a brief silence after the girl was finished, but, at last, her brother was led onstage – handcuffed, his feet in shackles, with a guard gripping each arm. The guards ushered him to the chair and chained him in place, then left. All the while, Niles said nothing – but his glare said everything.

Cornelius, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed. In fact, his usual, cheerful smile had returned. "So, Niles, care to give us your account of what happened last night?" Niles said nothing. "What? Nothing to say in your own defense?"

Metisse leaned forward. _Tell them, Niles. Tell them what a monster Harakuise is. Tell them to stand up against the Capitol. Tell them that the districts deserve better than to have children sent to their deaths. _Tell_ them._

Still, Niles said nothing, though he stirred a little, clearly uncomfortable. So Cornelius continued. "So are we to assume that it's true, then – that you attempted to murder your mentor in an act of selfishness and cowardice?"

That brought Niles to his feet, straining against his chains, mouth open in protest. But, instead of words, only grunts and wails emerged. Only then, as the guards rushed onstage to sedate him and drag him away, did Metisse realize what had happened. What they had done. They hadn't wanted her brother to tell the audience the truth, so they had silenced him the only way they knew how.

They had turned him into an Avox.

Metisse buried her face in her hands. Niles' voice – his words – had always meant so much to him. And now the Capitol had taken even that away from him. Because they were afraid. Because they were cowards. Because they were weak.

But she would be strong for Niles.

* * *

**Matt Todd, 18  
****Brother of Luke Marsanskis**

They had to be strong.

Matt and Erik sat together, watching – as they had for the last five years – from their house in Victors' Village. Only this year, everything was different. They were used to Vernon being gone – he was always gone during the Games. And he always came back.

But would Luke?

Matt squeezed Erik's hand tightly. Luke had as good a chance as anyone else. Better, probably. He'd gotten a nine in training, after all. And he would have Vernon there to help him.

But Vernon wouldn't be in the Games with him. As much as they knew he wanted to, Vernon couldn't be there when it mattered most. Luke would have to rely on himself.

Matt shook his head. All three of them had learned to rely on themselves before Vernon had taken them in. All three of them had been living on the streets, begging or stealing to get their next meal, caring for each other because no one else would. Those memories were buried beneath the five years of plenty that Vernon had provided, but they were still there, waiting to surface again.

Waiting to be used.

After all the drama in District Five, Cornelius was clearly hoping to get back in a normal rhythm. He was grinning as the younger girl from Six took the stage, wearing a long, flowing black dress, stitched with intricate patterns that matched her eye patch. She giggled as she took a seat next to Cornelius, but he smiled back, completely unfazed.

"So, Ryzer," he leaned forwards, and the girl quickly mimicked him. "Nines in training for your whole district. What do you make of that?"

Matt had been wondering the same. He hadn't expected even Luke to get a nine, let alone all three of them. Maybe without the normal amount of Careers in the mix, the Gamemakers' standards were lower. But still, it seemed odd.

Ryzer simply giggled, then sang out in a high-pitched voice. "_Three times three to make up nine. Three of us will not survive."_

That got Cornelius' attention. "Are you saying that not all three of you will survive, or that none of you will?"

Ryzer burst out laughing. "Not _us_, silly. _With present, past, and future, too, Gamemakers know what to do._"

"I'm not sure I understand—"

"Of course you don't. _All the questions, all the lights – they don't help improve your sight_."

Matt smiled a little, in spite of himself. The girl was completely insane. But it _was _pretty funny to see Cornelius so completely flustered.

Soon, her time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a short, puffed, silver skirt, a long-sleeved black top with a high neck and decorated with half-wheels, and black boots. "So, Cassandra," Cornelius began hesitantly, perhaps worried that the girl would answer the same way as her district partner. "What do you make of your district's high training scores?"

Cassandra shrugged, indifferent. "I know what I did to get it, and I don't really care what they did. I'm not worried about them. I'm worried about myself. And focusing on saving myself doesn't include being curious about what my district partners might have shown the Gamemakers."

Cornelius nodded. "Focus. Determination. I like that. Can you give us any insight into what you have planned for the Games?"

"I plan to kill," Cassandra answered plainly. "That's all there is to it, in the end, isn't there? All the strategy, all the clever plans and schemes – it all boils down to whether someone's willing to kill or not. And I am."

Matt looked away. She had a point. Regardless of what Luke or any of the others had planned, a victor had to be willing to kill. Was Luke? His high training score suggested the answer was yes, but Matt still had a hard time picturing his brother killing anyone.

Then again, he had a hard time picturing Vernon killing anyone. And he had. Maybe anyone could, when it came down to it. When their life was on the line, maybe anyone could become a killer.

Finally, the girl's time was up, and Luke took the stage, wearing a black suit and black boots. Unlike Cassandra, he was smiling a little, but not the same giddy smile as Ryzer. A strong, confident smile the Cornelius gave right back, perhaps grateful that things had returned to normal.

"So, Luke," Cornelius nodded in the direction of the girls who had left. "Nines for all three of you. What do you make of it?"

Luke nodded. "Well, like Cassandra said, I know what I did to get it. I don't know what they did, but it must have been good. Only two tributes scored higher than the three of us, so that says a lot."

"Indeed, it does," Cornelius agreed. "Do you think this will have any effect on your strategy for the Games?"

Luke thought for a moment. "It certainly makes them a threat – the two of them working together and all. They're certainly a pair to watch out for – maybe even a pair to target first."

"And that doesn't bother you – the idea of targeting your own district partners?"

Luke shook his head. "Not at all. They're going to have to die, anyway, if I'm going to win. Whether it's me or someone else who kills them – I don't know why that should make much of a difference."

Matt nodded. Good words. Strong words. Exactly what the audience would want to hear. But did Luke mean it? Was he really planning to go after his district partners first? Or was it just a ploy to create drama, win sponsors?

Maybe Luke was right, in the end. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't matter what he did – what he had to do – in order to come home. All that mattered was that he did – and that, when he did, his family would be waiting for him. So they would watch – he and Erik – and whatever their brother did, whatever he was forced to do, they would stay strong.

They would be strong for Luke.

* * *

**Levi Terris, 15  
****Brother of Saoirse Terris**

They had to be strong.

Levi sat on the floor with his parents, older brother Trevor, and younger brother Armin, watching the screen in anticipation. He'd never gone a day without seeing his sister, and now it had been days – ever since the tribute parade. And now this was the last time they would see her before the arena.

Before the Games.

Levi huddled close to his brothers. Part of him wished that their trick at the reaping had worked. That he had been able to volunteer, instead. Maybe he wouldn't have a better chance – Saoirse had managed a six in training, after all – but at least it would mean he wouldn't be the one waiting here. Just waiting. Unable to do anything that might – in even the smallest way – affect the outcome of the Games.

At last, District Seven began, and Saoirse took the stage, wearing a white blouse, black pants, and black high heels. She was smiling as she sat down next to Cornelius – her usual, playful smirk that Levi had seen every day for as long as he could remember.

Cornelius didn't waste any time turning the topic to them. "So, Saoirse, am I correct in assuming that you knew the boys who tried to volunteer for you at the reaping? Adoring suitors, perhaps?"

Saoirse held back a laugh. "Actually, they're my brothers."

"Your brothers!" Cornelius made a show of acting surprised, though someone had surely told him in advance. "Well, that's some display of family loyalty, even if it was all in vain. Is there anything you'd like to say to the brave young men watching?"

Saoirse nodded. "Trevor, I'm … I'm glad you're safe. It was your last year, so I'm glad they didn't let you volunteer for me. You're safe for good now. Armin, don't you dare touch my stuff while I'm gone!" She was still smiling, but it was clearly forced, and there were tears in her eyes. "Levi, that prank we were planning – I'm sorry I let you go through with it on your own." She was crying now. "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry I—" Whatever the rest of the sentence was, it was muffled by her sobbing. "I love you all," she managed at last.

Cornelius did his best to soothe her, but it did no good. Levi realized he was crying, as well. "We love you, too, Saoirse," their mother whispered, as if she could hear them. Levi buried his face in Trevor's shirt. It had never quite felt real, until this moment.

His sister was going to die.

He would probably never see her again.

But at least she had said it. She had said goodbye. She had told them she loved them. And she knew they loved her. Maybe that was the best they could ask for, in the end: each other's love.

Soon, Saoirse's time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a dark green dress and a smile that, unlike Saoirse's, didn't fade as Cornelius began asking questions. "So, Viktoria," Cornelius smiled, "anyone you'd like to say hello to back home?"

Viktoria smirked. "If you're trying to get me to start crying about my brothers, you're out of luck, Cornelius." But she waved to the cameras, anyway. "Take care of Mom and Dad, Anatoli. I'll be back soon."

Cornelius nodded. "You're sure about that. That's good. What makes you so confident you'll be coming home?"

Viktoria shrugged. "Why not? I've got as good a chance as anyone else, don't I? I got a seven in training. I know what I'm doing. Why not me?"

Levi brushed the tears from his eyes. Why not her? Well, then, why not Saoirse? There was no reason to count her out yet – not really. She seemed just as strong as the other girl, and they were both older than the boy. If it was going to be someone from District Seven – and, of course, there was no guarantee that it would be, but why not? – then why not her? Why not his sister?

Soon, Viktoria's time was up, and the boy took the stage, wearing a light green button-down shirt and brown pants. He didn't even make an attempt at smiling; his expression was already serious, almost fierce. "So, Jason," Cornelius grinned. "You seem prepared for tomorrow."

"As prepared as I can be," Jason agreed. "As prepared as I'll ever be, considering I don't really have a choice in the matter. But there is something I can choose – I can choose whether to go in fighting, or to kicking and screaming. And I'm going in fighting."

Cornelius nodded. "That's what we like to see – taking a situation you didn't choose and making it your own! And a seven in training. Pretty impressive for not having any prior experience. You must have picked up a lot. Can you give us any insight into what you've learned?"

Jason thought for a moment before answering, and his answer chilled Levi to the bone. "I learned what I'm capable of." He glanced over towards the Gamemakers' box. "Thank you for showing me, Mr. Florum. I'll put it to good use."

The camera panned to the Gamemakers in time to show Helius giving him a playful salute. Levi glanced at his brothers. What did he mean? Surely the Gamemakers hadn't done anything already. Surely they weren't already taking sides.

No. No, Jason was probably just trying to make it look like they had. It was no secret that the Gamemakers sometimes took sides between tributes, but it was almost always against a rebel or a troublemaker or someone who was truly, irreparably insane – someone who couldn't be allowed to win. Saoirse was none of those things. She was safe. As safe as she could be.

Levi gripped Trevor's hand. She still had a chance. Sure, she had cried during the interviews, but he would have done the same thing. Any of them would. He was almost surprised more people didn't cry. Or shout. Or complain. They were all playing along. In a way, Saoirse's willingness to cry in front of the audience wasn't a show of weakness, but of strength. The strength it took to reveal one's emotions to complete strangers. He wasn't sure he had that strength.

But he wasn't among strangers. He was with his family. And here, they all had the courage to cry. Because that was what held them together. That was what made them strong. And they would stay that way.

They would stay strong for Saoirse.

* * *

**Davy Garner, 12  
****Friend of Janardan Fletcher**

He had to be strong.

Davy brushed the tears from his eyes. They were all gone. Emmett, Victoria, Chaser, Carlton – all gone. All taken by the Peacekeepers. Not dead yet – not as far as he knew – but it wouldn't take long. They knew. They had to.

The Peacekeepers had found them after the goodbyes. He had run. He had escaped.

But he couldn't run forever.

He had taken refuge in District Eight's community home. Fletcher had always said the best place to hide was right under everyone's noses. So far, his advice had proven sound; no one had noticed the little boy in the corner. Not the orphans, not the workers, and certainly not the Peacekeepers.

He was safe for now.

So, as much as he hated it, Davy forced himself to watch the screen. Just like everyone else. He had to blend in. Had to go unnoticed.

But for how long?

The girl from Eight took the stage first, wearing a slim black dress with a white stripe across the middle, silver earrings, and silver sandals. Her long, flowing hair hung loose in the front and was poofed up in the back. She was smiling a little, her head held high, looking almost bored.

Cornelius, however, looked anything but bored. He leaned forward a little in his chair, eager, anticipating. "So, Shilo, I hear you have some information for the audience. A little … secret about one of your district partners."

Davy froze. A secret. He couldn't possibly be referring to anyone but Fletcher. But how would she know? Had he told her? Had she put it together on her own?

Shilo shrugged. "I don't think it's much of a _secret _if he tells another tribute in the middle of training and I just _happen _to overhear. And, mind you, I'm not saying it's _true _– only that _he _claims it is."

Cornelius grinned. "Of course, of course. Tell us."

_Don't tell them_, Davy pleaded silently. _Please. Just don't say it. If they know, Fletcher's as good as dead._

Shilo rolled her eyes. "One of my district partners _claims _he's the Robber Prince."

The audience murmured. So did the orphans. Davy said nothing. Cornelius raised an eyebrow. "_Claims_, you say. I take it you don't believe him."

Shilo shrugged. "Doesn't really matter whether or not I believe him. If he's going to pretend to be an outlaw who steals from Capitol citizens … well, he deserves to face the consequences."

Davy clenched his fists tightly. How could she say that? Everything they'd done – everything Fletcher and the Brotherhood had accomplished – had been for them. For people like her. Ordinary citizens who didn't have the means to stand up to the Capitol themselves. It was all for them.

And she had betrayed him.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the younger boy took the stage, wearing a tie-dyed three piece suit, a rainbow-colored tie, and a shaky smile. Cornelius didn't waste any time. "So, Enzo, what do you make of the claim that a tribute from District Eight could be the famous Robber Prince?"

Enzo hesitated a moment, fiddling with his tie. Then he looked straight at the cameras and gave them his best smile. "All right, you caught me."

_What?_

Cornelius wasn't fazed for an instant. "Are you saying that _you_ are the Robber Prince?"

Enzo nodded. "Thought it was Fletcher, didn't you. Completely overlooked the little twelve-year-old. Well, I'm not about to let someone else take the credit." He smiled smugly, and, for a moment, almost looked like Fletcher. "I'm the one you're after. That's right – all those cons, all those robberies, masterminded by a _twelve-year-old_. All the best Capitol investigators, all those Peacekeepers, outwitted by a _twelve-year-old._ What do you have to say to that?"

"And your family?"

"As clueless as the rest of you. They had no idea what I was really up to." Enzo was still smiling, but Davy could see his face growing paler. He hadn't even thought about the possible repercussions for his family. Davy swallowed hard, hoping this little charade didn't cost the boy's family their lives.

Davy watched as the audience ate it up – the tales of this little Prince's exploits, exaggerated from the stories the Brotherhood had spread themselves. Davy smiled a little. Enzo wasn't the Robber Prince, of course, but, for this moment, he was just as brave.

Soon, his time was over, and Fletcher took his place, wearing a dark gold suit and bright gold tie. As the two passed each other, Fletcher smiled a little and clapped Enzo on the back. Cornelius didn't miss it. "So, Fletcher," he grinned, "what do you make of your district partner's confession?"

_Don't say it_. Davy watched the screen intently. _Don't. Just this once, Fletcher, just this _once_, keep your mouth closed._

But, of course, he didn't. "I think it was one of the bravest things I've ever seen," he admitted. "I think it was a noble gesture. And I'm sorry, Enzo, but I can't let you take the credit – or the blame – for what I've done." He turned towards the cameras. "_I _am the Robber Prince."

Cornelius grinned. "Intriguing, indeed. What do you think would prompt Enzo to claim your identity?"

Fletcher smiled a little. "I would hope it's because he believes – as do many others, I'm sure – that I'm someone worth imitating. That I've set an example that's worth following. I would imagine there are many others like him in the districts – others who have, at one point or another, imagined that _they_ were the Robber Prince. That, using nothing but their wits and their words, they could outwit anyone from an upper-class citizen to the Capitol itself. Who _wouldn't _want to do that? Who wouldn't want to _be_ that?"

"Be that as it may, I don't imagine there are many people who envy your position at the moment."

Fletcher shrugged. "Probably not. It's true: You've got me. And I imagine I won't make it out of that arena alive." He grinned. "But I'm not going down without a fight."

Davy looked away, trying to hide his tears. But, just as Fletcher's interview was finished, there was a pounding on the door. Peacekeepers stormed in. Davy leapt up, but it was too late. Two of them grabbed him. Dragged him out the door and into the rain.

Davy clenched his fists. They had him. They had the others. They had Fletcher. And they thought that meant they had won. But they hadn't won. Not yet. He would fight. He would be strong.

He would be strong for Fletcher.

* * *

"_The Universe speaks with many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust. It speaks in the language of strength and the language of compassion."_


	26. Interviews: The Language of the Heart

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **My apologies for the late update. I've been trying to balance this, the collaborations I'm taking part in, and spending time with family. Updates should be a bit faster again now.

Just a friendly reminder to vote in my sponsor poll if you haven't yet.

* * *

**Interviews Part Three  
****The Language of the Heart**

* * *

**Tess Gorbon, 80  
****Friend of Dennar Viesennor**

She just wanted to hear his voice.

Tess leaned forward a little. She wasn't even sure what district was being interviewed at the moment. They had begun to blur together. So many names. So many faces. So many children on their way to their deaths.

Tess shivered and pulled her tattered blanket tighter around her shoulders. She almost wished – as she had many times before – that she hadn't lived long enough to see these days. The days of the Games. Before the rebellion, the situation in the districts had been … well, certainly not 'good,' but better than this. Since their victory, the Capitol had tightened its grip, using the Games to crush not only twenty-three lives, but the will of the districts, as well.

Except it wasn't twenty-three this year. It was thirty-five. Thirty-five would die. One would live. And which was better seemed to be a gamble. Of their two victors, Crispin had adjusted. Tobiah hadn't. Maybe it had to do with character, or strength of spirit, or the nature of their Games. Maybe it was just dumb luck.

Tess shook her head. She had lived long enough to know that much of life simply depended on dumb luck. No one in the Capitol had chosen to be born there; they'd simply been lucky. And no one in District Nine had chosen their lot. Certainly not Dennar. The boy didn't deserve to be born here, now.

Then again, most of them didn't. But someone had to be. Some people had to be unlucky, so that others could have the good luck. Without the reminder of how bad life could be, how could anyone appreciate their good fortune?

Tess yawned. These sort of philosophical thoughts always seemed to come late at night, when there was no one to talk to. Normally, she would have saved them for the next day, to tell Dennar over breakfast. But now…

Tess' attention snapped back to the moment as she saw "District Nine" flash across the screen. The younger girl took the stage first, wearing a light beige dress and brown boots. She was smiling a little as she took a seat next to Cornelius, as if she was completely unconcerned with the fact that she might be dead by this time tomorrow.

"So, Asteria," Cornelius beamed. "How are you feeling about the Games tomorrow?"

Asteria leaned back a little in her chair and stared off into the distance, past the cameras. "Curious, I suppose."

"Curious," Cornelius repeated, clearly intrigued. "And what are you curious about, Asteria?"

Asteria shrugged. "Everything. Isn't everyone? I mean, it's the first Quarter Quell. Never been done before, and we've been promised all sorts of surprises and twists. Who wouldn't be curious?"

"Who, indeed," Cornelius agreed. "And which part of the Games would you say that you're the most curious about?"

Asteria thought for a moment. "The mutts, I guess. They've always been my favorite part. The seagulls last year, the horses the year before – they're always so creative." She flashed a smile towards the Gamemakers' section. "Looking forward to seeing what you've come up with this time."

Tess cringed, hoping the Gamemakers wouldn't send mutts after the girl just because she said she wanted to see them.

Soon, Asteria's time was up, and the other girl took the stage, wearing a long, sparkly blue gown with a light blue train, long white gloves, and a steady smile. "So, Radiance," Cornelius grinned. "As Asteria said, there's a lot to look forward to tomorrow. What are you the most curious about?"

Radiance smiled. "Well, mutts are all well and good, but I'm more curious about the arena itself. In the last twenty-four years, we've had everything from a farm to a skyscraper to a maze of catacombs. It'll be interesting to see what they have in mind to try to top that."

"And do you think they'll be able to – top them, that is?"

"Oh, I'm sure they will." Radiance grinned up at the Gamemakers. "They haven't disappointed us yet, and we've got no reason to believe they'll start doing so this year."

Tess smiled a little. Both girls were trying – a bit too hard, it seemed – to please the Gamemakers. To say what they wanted to hear. And maybe it would help, for a little while. But flattery would only help them for so long.

She hoped Dennar had something better up his sleeve.

At last, the girl's time was up, and Dennar took the stage, wearing a dark red suit and black tie. Tess smiled a little. Dennar hated red. But, of course, he would never tell his stylist that. He sat down next to Cornelius, his smile shaky, blinking because of the lights.

It took him a little longer to warm up – longer than the girls, at least – but, at last, Cornelius turned the topic to the Games. "So, Dennar, is there anything you're curious about, anything you're excited to find out about the Games tomorrow?"

Dennar thought for a moment. "Asteria and Radiance both had good points. The mutts are always interesting, and the arena's sure to be impressive. But, in the end, the arena's just a stage. It's the players on that stage that make the Games worth watching."

"So you're saying you're most curious about your fellow tributes?"

Dennar nodded. "Particularly my allies. I've gotten to know them pretty well over the last couple of days, and I'm interested to see how they react when our lives are on the line."

"Ooh, intriguing," Cornelius nodded. "Care to share who these mysterious allies are?"

Dennar shrugged. "We haven't exactly been trying to keep it a secret. Alasdair and Enzo."

Tess smiled a little. Of course. She didn't remember too many names, but the younger ones had stuck in her memory. She was pretty sure Alasdair and Enzo were the youngest. The ones most in need of help. Of course Dennar would be drawn to them.

Tess closed her eyes, weariness overtaking her once more. Good. He had allies. Allies who needed him. Maybe that was what he needed most, in the end – to feel like he was needed, like he was making a difference.

Maybe that was what _everyone_ needed.

And maybe that was the biggest thing they had lost, in the rebellion. The feeling that they _could_ make a difference, that they _were _needed. So many people now were just trying to make it from day to day, trying to put food on the table, trying to keep their families alive, without ever thinking about _why_. _Why _it was important that they live. _Why_ they should try to survive, when every day seemed to be worse than the next.

Dennar thought about the why. He wanted to make a difference, to help people. Whether that would help keep him alive or doom him completely, Tess wasn't sure, but she did know that the boy wouldn't have it any other way.

And that was a comforting thought.

* * *

**Jon Sawyer  
****Father of Grace Sawyer**

He just wanted to hear her voice.

Jon and Eve held each other close, watching the screen, both trying to hold back tears. The districts were beginning to blur together. So many names. So many children. So many voices that were about to be silenced.

But not silenced forever. Jon held Eve's hand tightly. They had to hold onto that. It was all they had left: the belief that, even if Grace didn't make it home, they would see her again some day.

But that didn't make it any easier. Didn't make the thought of losing her now any more bearable. He wanted her back _now_, not at some unknown time far in the future. Jon wiped the tears from his eyes. He would give anything, even his own life, gladly, if it would mean her safe return. There was so much left for her to do, here and now, not in some other land far away.

And that was the real tragedy of the Games, in the end: the lives they took were the lives of children. It would be better – still not good, but better – if the tributes they chose were adults. Those who had already had their time, lived a good portion of their lives. People like him.

Instead, they chose children, and, in doing so, destroyed not only their lives in the here and now, but anything they would have accomplished in the future. So much wasted potential, and for what? Entertainment. Revenge. Such petty causes, but the Capitol had the will to enforce their desires.

But they wouldn't hold that power forever. The words still rang in his mind, the words that had come from his father, and his father before him. _No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the Universe than the need for freedom. Against that power, governments and tyrants and armies cannot stand. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free._

_ We will be free._

At last, it was District Ten's turn, and Grace took the stage, wearing a cream-colored blouse, brown leather skirt, and thick brown boots. She was smiling a little, and even gave the crowd a friendly wave as she sat down next to Cornelius.

"So, Grace," Cornelius smiled. "You've learned a lot over the last few days. What do you think will be the most important thing to remember going into the arena?"

Grace thought for a moment, and Jon could practically see her mind sorting through possible answers, trying to decide on the best one. "I think the most important thing to remember is that we're not alone."

Jon could feel Eve's hand grow tense in his, hoping Grace wasn't doing what it sounded like she was doing. There was a reason, after all, why their meetings were always held after dark, in secret. If the Capitol ever found out about their beliefs, about the words they kept secret, whispering them to each other in the dark, who knew what they would do?

"Not alone," Cornelius repeated. "How do you mean?"

Grace leaned forward. "Well, I would imagine that, once you're in the arena, it's easy to feel like there's no one watching. That no one cares. And people can do … terrible things when they think no one is watching. But there's always someone watching. There are cameras everywhere. The audience knows everything that's going on in the Games, so the tributes are never really alone. There are always consequences. Always repercussions. It's easy to do terrible things when no one else is watching. But if you can remember that all of Panem is going to know what you did … that makes it a bit different."

Cornelius nodded. "I imagine it would."

"But it's also motivating," Grace decided. "Because there _are _people who care. And they're watching. They're watching everything. They're always there, and that's … an encouraging thought."

Jon breathed a sigh of relief, and let out another after Grace stepped down from the stage, finishing her entire interview without mentioning anything that would put her life in danger. Maybe a day would come when they could stand tall and proud of their beliefs, but it wasn't today.

Today, she had to focus on surviving.

The younger of the two boys took the stage next, wearing a dark grey suit and black tie. He didn't even bother smiling; he was all business as he took his seat next to Cornelius.

But Cornelius was smiling enough for the both of them. "So, Corvo, with everything you've learned in the past few days, what's the one thing you think will be important to remember during the Games?"

"The future," Corvo answered after a moment. "It's important to remember that, if you survive the Games, there's a future to think about. In the arena, I imagine, it's easy to forget that – to just focus on trying to survive another day, another hour, another few minutes. But if you forget the _reason_ you want to survive, if you forget _why_ you want to come home … then what's the point?"

"What, indeed," Cornelius agreed. "And what's the reason you want to come home so badly?"

"District Ten," Corvo answered simply. "I want to go back and … I want to help make things better. That's what I've always wanted, really. When I was younger, I wanted to be a Peacekeeper. It turned out that wasn't for me, but I still want to … to make a difference, in some way. To be someone the district can look up to, someone worth imitating."

Jon smiled a little. Noble, to be sure. But whether or not a victor was someone worth imitating … well, that could go either way. Glenn had recovered from his own Games, determined to do some good. Tess hadn't. There were no guarantees. But it was something to hope for.

Soon, Corvo's time was up, and the older boy took the stage, wearing a tight-fitted tuxedo and a black tie. No smiles from him, either; he was as serious as the boy before him, though considerably larger and more intimidating.

"So, Hogan," Cornelius grinned. "What do _you _think is the most important thing to remember during the Games?"

Hogan shook his head. "How to kill. If you don't remember that, you're in a lot of trouble."

Cornelius laughed heartily at that, though Jon wasn't sure the boy had meant it as a joke. "True, true," he agreed. "And, judging by your training score, you're prepared to do exactly that. A ten is pretty impressive for anyone. For a tribute from an outer district, it's downright amazing."

Hogan shrugged. "Winning the Games is amazing. Anything that comes before that … it's just practice."

He had a point. Every year, two or three tributes managed to score tens in training. But, as one of the girls from Four had pointed out, only four of them had gone on to win the Games. And Glenn, District Ten's first victor, had scored only a two, one of the lowest scores ever for a victor.

Jon smiled a little, remembering Glenn's Games. Jon had been nineteen at the time, safe from the reapings for the first time and finally able to distance himself a bit from what was going on in the Games. He remembered watching in anticipation as the number of tributes dwindled, and Glenn still remained hidden in the swamp, untouched.

As if someone was protecting him. Saving him for something important. At first, it hadn't been clear what, but, a few years later, during the Tenth Games, Glenn had begun recording his tributes' stories, their memories, their hopes and dreams. Whether he knew it or not, he was making a difference. He was putting a face, a life, with the names of those who were long gone. He was seeing to it that they were remembered.

And that was a comforting thought.

* * *

**Nuto Farnahm, 12  
****Brother of Jazz Farnahm**

He actually missed her voice.

Nuto held his little sister Rita closer, still surprised by how disturbing the void was. Yes, Jazz could be cruel. Yes, she called Rita names. Yes, she had beaten Nuto bloody on several occasions.

But she was still their sister. She was still part of the family. And he still missed her.

Nuto shook his head. All across Panem, he knew, other families were thinking the same thing. Missing their brothers, their sisters, their children. Willing to forgive anything – any fault, any mistakes in the past – as long as they could somehow come home.

But only one family would get their wish.

Maybe there were families who deserved it more. As he'd watched the districts go by on the screen, so many tributes had talked lovingly of their families, their brothers and sisters and friends, in a way Nuto knew Jazz would never talk about him or Rita. As much as he missed Jazz, there was a part of him that knew she would never care for him as much as some of the others cared for their families. As much as he wanted her back, maybe there were other families who needed it more.

Maybe there were other tributes who deserved it more.

Nuto hugged Rita close as Jazz took the stage, wearing a black suit with white stripes and a pair of low black heels. She was scowling, but that didn't surprise Nuto. It was so rare to see Jazz smile.

"So, Jazz," Cornelius beamed. "I think we were all very excited last year to see District Eleven pick up its first win in over twenty years. As we all know, only one district has managed back-to-back victors so far. What do you think of your chances this year?"

Jazz shrugged. "I don't see why it would make a whole lot of difference. It's a different year. Different tributes. Elijah and I are completely different people, with completely different strategies and techniques. He's not even my mentor. So why should his victory affect my chances?"

Cornelius nodded approvingly. "Independence. I like that. And you said your strategies are different. Can you give us any clues about yours?"

"Well, I'd say it's pretty straightforward. Strike fast, strike hard, and cut down anyone in my way."

"I like it," Cornelius agreed. "Simple, effective, easy to remember."

Nuto smiled a little when Jazz's scowl only grew at the joke. Subtlety had never been Jazz's style. It didn't really surprise him that she had a simple, straightforward plan – or that she didn't have any issue with sharing it.

Soon, her time was up, and the younger boy took the stage, wearing a white shirt under a maroon-colored three-piece suit. He was grinning broadly as he shook Cornelius' hand. "So, Lynher," Cornelius smiled back. "Can you tell us what it's like having a mentor who's fresh out of the Games himself? Do you think that'll have any effect on your chances?"

Lynher nodded. "Actually, I think it gives me an advantage. Like you said, it's only been a year since Elijah's Games. The memories are still fresh. Sure, I'm his first tribute, but, let's face it, no tribute is ever really going to be exactly like another. And it's my first time doing this, too."

That got a chuckle out of Cornelius. "And how do you think you two are doing so far? Do you make a good team?"

Elijah shrugged. "Well, he keeps telling me I'm the best tribute he's ever had, so I must be doing something right." He let the laughter die down. "Seriously, though, he's a wonderful mentor, and I think we have a lot in common. We're both going to give it our best. There's not a lot more you can ask for, in the end?"

He had a point. He was going to do his best. So was everyone else. But, in the end, only one person's best was going to be good enough.

Soon, Lynher's time was up, and the other boy took the stage, wearing a white, double-breasted suit with gold buttons, along with a gold vest and tie. He was smiling, but not as enthusiastically as Lynher. But certainly not as hostile as Jazz.

"So, Bakaari," Cornelius grinned. "What do you think? Will District Eleven be able to pull off a win two years in a row?"

Bakaari shook his head a little. "I'm not sure that's the right question to be asking, Cornelius."

Cornelius leaned forward a little. "What do you mean?"

"I've got three little sisters at home, Cornelius," Bakaari explained. "They aren't sitting around wondering whether or not District Eleven is going to win. They want to know whether _I'm _coming home, not just someone from the district. Whatever I do in the arena, I'm not doing it so that District Eleven can have back-to-back victors. I'm doing it so that I can go home to Willow, Piper, and Ivy."

Nuto looked away. Jazz hadn't even mentioned him or Rita, while Bakaari had so quickly turned the topic to his family, to his reason for coming home. Did Jazz have a reason? Did she care that he and Rita were waiting for her to come home?

And were they? More than once in the past few years, Nuto had caught himself wishing that his sister would just go away and never return. He was sure Rita had thought the same, more often than she would ever admit. Now, it seemed, they had gotten their wish, and he wasn't sure whether he should feel guilty or grateful. Wasn't this what he'd wanted?

But it wasn't – not really. He'd wanted her to leave, sure, but he'd never wanted her to die. What the Gamemakers had in store for the tributes – especially this year, during a Quarter Quell – wasn't something he would wish on anyone. Even Jazz.

But it was something she was about to face, anyway.

"Do you think she has a chance?" Rita asked softly as District Eleven came to a close. She snuggled a little closer to Nuto.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I suppose everyone has a chance, but … I don't know." But there was one thing he did know: It was out of his hands. Whatever happened in the Games, it wouldn't be his fault. There was nothing he could do now – good or bad. Nothing he could do to help his sister, but nothing he could do that would hinder her, either.

And that was a comforting thought.

* * *

**Olivia Pruitt, 15  
****Friend of Brennan Aldaine**

She could still hear his voice.

Olivia turned Brennan's watch over in her hand again. "I wish I didn't have to go," he'd said. But he had gone. And he had known – as she did – that there was only a small chance that he would be coming back.

But even a small chance was better than nothing. He wasn't dead yet. Which meant she could still hope.

But hoping for his return meant hoping that he had it in him to kill. Hoping that, when his life was on the line, he would be able to put his own life before the lives of the other tributes. Hoping that the other thirty-five children she had seen tonight would die.

It would be so much easier if she could hate them. If she could convince herself that the other tributes were monsters, that they were selfish and hateful, that they didn't deserve to come home as much as Brennan did. But, seeing them at last, looking into their faces, hearing their voices, she couldn't. She couldn't hate most of them. And some of them she liked. Some of them she could sympathize with. Most of them hadn't done anything to deserve this.

But all of them had to die if Brennan was going to come home.

Olivia tucked her knees to her chest. She hoped Brennan wasn't seeing what she was. She hoped he wasn't seeing people who needed protection, people who needed his help. She hoped that he would be able to fight, to kill, to put himself first.

But, if he could, what sort of person would be returning home?

Olivia shook the thought from her head. It didn't matter what he did. Didn't matter what sort of person he turned into. She just wanted him back. Their friendship had lasted since they were small. As long as he survived this, their friendship would do the same.

Finally, it was District Twelve's turn, and the girl took the stage, wearing a layered, poofy green dress made of some sort of netted material. Olivia couldn't check a sympathetic cringe; the dress looked horrible, and Blythe's couldn't hide her discomfort as she took a seat next to Cornelius.

Cornelius, however, was completely undaunted by the hideous outfit. "So, Blythe, it's no secret that District Twelve, so far, is the only district without a victor. Do you think you'll be the one to break that pattern?"

Blythe smiled sweetly. "I certainly hope so, Cornelius. And I know my family's hoping so, too."

Cornelius nodded. "Tell us about your family, Blythe."

Blythe couldn't hide a few tears in her eyes. "I've got three brothers and two sisters, and they're … they're the best family anyone could ask for. I … I realized I don't say it very often, so … I love you. All of you. Joran, Milo, Raelyn, Kellin, Iona. Mom, Dad … I love you. And I just … I just want to come home."

Olivia fought back a lump in her throat, trying to imagine someone killing the little girl onstage. Trying to imagine someone stabbing her, or slitting her throat, or breaking her neck. Trying to imagine someone watching the life draining from her eyes.

Trying to imagine Brennan doing it.

Try as she might, she couldn't picture it. She couldn't picture Brennan killing her, or any of them. She couldn't picture this little girl dying. She couldn't bear to.

Soon, the girl's time was over, and Brennan took the stage, wearing a dark grey suit and a bright red tie. Olivia couldn't help but notice the friendly pat on the shoulder he gave Blythe as they passed, or the encouraging smile she gave him.

Of course. Of course she was the sort of person Brennan would latch onto as an ally. Someone sweet, someone who missed her family, someone who needed his help.

Someone who wasn't going to be able to help him at all.

Brennan was still smiling as he took a seat next to Cornelius. "So, Brennan," Cornelius beamed back. "What do you think? Is District Twelve's first victor on this stage tonight?"

Brennan nodded. "I hope so, Cornelius. But I also know that the last … well, the last thirty-four tributes onstage tonight have said the same thing. Only one of us can be right, but, yes, I hope it'll be me."

"Is there anything that you think would give you an advantage over the other tributes?"

Brennan thought for a moment. "I think – if it makes sense – that the fact that I recognize I don't have any advantage over them … gives me an advantage. I'm not trained. I'm not outrageously strong. I'm not a genius. I'm just a kid from District Twelve. And I think acknowledging that – being realistic about my chances – gives me a chance."

Olivia smiled a little. Count on Brennan to make being average sound good. He had a point, of course. There wasn't anything that gave him much of an advantage over the others. But, at the same time, there was no reason to count him out. Nothing that would drag him down faster than any of the others.

Too soon, Brennan's time was up, and the other boy took the stage, wearing a deep blue suit and a grey tie. He was smiling confidently as he took his place next to Cornelius.

Cornelius grinned back. "So, Francis, I think we'd all like to know – Do you think you have what it takes to be District Twelve's very first victor."

Francis nodded. "I do, Cornelius. I know you've heard a lot of people tonight saying, 'I hope so,' or, 'I hope I can come home.' And hope is all well and good, but, at some point, you have to back it up. You have to want it. You can't just hope for things to happen during the Games; you have to _make _them happen."

Cornelius leaned forward a little. "And you think you can make things happen in your favor during the Games?"

"Yes," Francis answered simply.

"Confidence – I like that. What makes you so sure?"

Francis shrugged. "I have to be. The moment you stop thinking you're going to be the one to come home – the moment you give up and say, 'Well, maybe I don't really have a chance, after all,' – is the moment you've already lost."

Olivia nodded. He had a point. She could only hope that Brennan, too, hadn't already given up. That, when it came down to it, he would have what it took. That he would be able to fight. To kill. Maybe to kill the boy sitting onstage right now.

Olivia shook her head. She still couldn't picture it. Couldn't picture Brennan killing the boy in front of her, any more than she could picture him killing the girl.

But she was safe. She was in District Twelve. She could afford to sympathize with them. She could afford to be compassionate.

Because that wouldn't affect the Games. She could feel sorry for the other tributes if she wanted to; it wouldn't make one bit of difference. Just like it wouldn't make any difference if she made up her mind to hate them. Her opinion didn't matter. There wasn't anything she could do to help Brennan, but at least there was nothing she could do to hurt his chances, either.

And that was a comforting thought.

* * *

"_The Universe speaks with many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust. It speaks in the language of strength and the language of compassion. It is the language of the heart and the language of the soul. But always it is the same voice."_


	27. Ready

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the sponsor poll if you haven't already. A new poll will go up next chapter when the Games start.

* * *

**Night Before the Games  
****Ready**

* * *

**Henri Saunders, 18  
****District One**

"I'm not ready."

Henri looked up at Jade, eyes wide and frightened, begging, pleading, for him to do something. Anything. Maybe to offer a word of encouragement. To tell her that, yes, she was ready. That everything would be all right.

But that would be a lie.

And, frightened though she was, part of her didn't want him to lie. Didn't want comfort if the words were empty, meaningless. But, to her surprise, Jade put an arm around her shoulders, smiling a little. "Of course you're not ready. Years of training, and I still wasn't ready for my Games."

"Really?" It was hard to imagine Jade being unprepared. He always seemed so confident, so certain. And he had volunteered for his Games. How could he not have been ready?

"Really," Jade nodded. "No one's ever ready for the Games – not really. Sure, I'd trained, but I'd never killed. I'd never fought anyone with my life on the line. I'd never really been in danger of dying before. When you're in the Games … everything changes. Every_one_ changes. No one's ever ready for that."

Henri looked away. "I don't want to change."

Jade shrugged. "No one does. But it's not something you really have a say in. Look how much you've changed already. A few days ago, on the train, you barely said two words to me. Now here we are, talking."

Henri shook her head. "That's different."

"Yes, it is. It's a small change. But most bigger changes – in the Games and out – are made up of smaller changes. You'll change, too, the same as anyone else – little by little." He smiled a little.

"And I think I know where to start."

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

"I'm not ready."

Simone sat on the couch with Vester, her stony façade crumbling at last. She had made it through the interviews without so much as smiling. Maybe she had come across as cold and unlikable, but that was better than the alternative. Better than the shaking, trembling mess she was reduced to now.

Vester laid a hand on hers, steadying them. "Of course you're not ready. I fought in a war for almost a year, and I still wasn't ready for my Games."

"Really?" Simone looked up, surprised. She wasn't old enough to remember Vester's Games, but she'd seen the replays. He had always looked so confident, so in control, in the arena. He had seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

Vester nodded. "Really. I thought I was ready, of course – at first. I figured it couldn't be that different from a battle. But it is. In a battle – in a war – there are two sides. Either someone is fighting with you, or they're fighting against you. It's that simple."

"But in the Games, they're all against you," Simone reasoned.

"Exactly," Vester agreed. "Oh, there will be some you work with for a while. But it can only be for a while, and everyone knows it. Eventually, it's you against everyone else. Only one person survives, and even then…" He trailed off.

"Even then, they don't really win," Simone finished.

Vester squeezed her hand a little. "Yes. And the fact that you've already realized that – that'll help you. Give you an advantage over those who are determined not to change. You already know what you're going to have to do to win." He finally smiled a little.

"And I think I know where to start."

* * *

**Eigen Vallant, 14  
****District Three**

He was ready.

Eigen settled into bed as quickly as he could. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. Fretting over the Games all night wouldn't change that. Might as well get some rest, if he could.

They had a plan, after all – he and his allies. About as good a plan as they could ask for. The interviews had all but cemented the girls' district partners as the perfect targets. An Avox and a boy who was delusional enough to proclaim himself the Robber Prince in front of the entire Capitol. They were as good as dead already. It was just a matter of who did the deed.

And Mirami and Shilo seemed to have no problem with it being them.

For that, at least, he was surprised to find that he admired them. Many tributes considered their district partners off limits – at least at first. But both girls had been perfectly ready to denounce their district partners onstage during the interviews, without a shred of hesitation or remorse.

He tried to tell himself he would have done the same. It just so happened that neither of his district partners had any secrets to spill. He wasn't fond of them or anything. They weren't close. Alasdair and Natasha simply didn't make very tempting targets.

But, eventually, they would. Eventually, he would have to think about killing them, as well – assuming someone else didn't get to them first. And when the time came, would he be so eager? He'd spent his life bullying and picking on weaker classmates. But did that mean he was ready to kill?

Eigen closed his eyes. It did. It had to. Maybe it wasn't what he wanted, but he didn't have any say in the matter. Not any more.

He had to be ready.

* * *

**Calissa Hart, 18  
****District Four**

She was ready.

Calissa shook her head as she watched Barclay and Kinley heading for their rooms. She was more ready than them, at least. They were still smiling. Still happy – or at least pretending to be. And they still trusted each other.

She knew better, of course – better than to trust her allies. They were useful for a time, of course, but they were only a means to an end. Eventually, it was every tribute for himself.

Naomi, at least, seemed to be on the same page. "Watch out for your allies during the bloodbath," she said at last, in a tone that clearly indicated that 'watch out for' didn't mean 'protect.' "It's not unheard of for allies to turn on each other in the bloodbath – especially because you got such a high training score."

Calissa nodded. Her allies' training scores had been quite good, as well – most of them, at least. But it was no secret that she was the best-trained tribute in the arena. That might make her a target – even for her allies. "Does that mean I should turn on them first?" she asked.

Naomi shook her head. "Not right away. There are only four of you. That's a rather small pack, for a rather large amount of tributes. It'll take all of you to hold the Cornucopia. You can't really afford to lose anyone right away." She shrugged. "If they go after you, of course, that doesn't leave you much choice. Defend yourself if you have to, but don't make a point of targeting them right away. There will be plenty of other targets to choose from."

That much was true, at least. Plenty of targets. But that also meant there would be plenty of people who could be targeting her. She couldn't afford to trust any of them – not really. Not for a moment.

She had to be ready.

* * *

**Niles Avdeyev, 16  
****District Five**

He hadn't been ready.

Niles clenched his fists as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He had thought he was ready. Ready to kill, and probably be killed in return. He had been prepared to kill Harakuise. He had been willing to give his life for that goal.

But they had taken more than his life.

Tears of rage filled his eyes as he slammed his fist against the mirror. Why hadn't they simply killed him? That would have been better. Better than this.

But, soon, he would get his wish. There was no chance now – no chance that he would leave the arena alive. And he had lost his chance to kill Harakuise; the door was locked and barred, and there were almost certainly guards outside. Anything that could possibly be used as a weapon had been removed from his reach. And they had taken the thing that meant the most to him. They had taken his voice, the only weapon he had left.

He was helpless.

But there was one thing he could do. One thing that was still within his power. His district partners had betrayed him. Betrayed everything he had ever stood for, everything he had been willing to fight for. They had called him a coward, but they were the ones who still lived in fear of what the Capitol would do to them if they stepped out of line for a second.

They were the cowards.

And they would pay for what they had done.

Maybe he couldn't go after Harakuise directly, but he could see to it that the monster's tribute never left the arena. That this year didn't bring District Five another victor who would sit by while Harakuise manipulated the district to the Capitol's whims. If he couldn't win, then no one from District Five would.

If he was going down, he would bring them with him.

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

She hadn't been ready.

Cassandra shook her head. She should have expected it, of course. She and Ryzer had been planning to kill Luke ever since the train rides. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to hear that he was planning to do the same.

But, somehow, she still hadn't expected him to say it.

Clearly, she hadn't been giving him enough credit. He was the son of a victor, yes, but that victor had been perfectly willing to turn on his own allies in the bloodbath. She and Luke weren't allies. They had barely spoken. Why was she surprised that he was willing to kill her?

Maybe she had simply thought he didn't have it in him. He had scored quite well in training, of course, but she had assumed part of that was due to his father. Of course the son of a victor would score well. The audience would be expecting it, so it hadn't surprised her that the Gamemakers had given them what they'd wanted to see.

But maybe he had earned it.

Cassandra rolled over and closed her eyes. It didn't matter. If anything, it made it easier to think of him as the enemy, now that she knew he was planning to kill them, too. Why should she feel guilty about plotting to kill him, when he was planning the same?

Not that she had felt guilty. Not really. It had always been a given that he would have to die, if she was going to have a chance to come home. Why should it matter if he was killed by her or someone else, killed sooner or killed later? He would be just as dead either way.

And he would be. She would make sure of it. They had been planning it, anyway, but his declaration had made it final. He was going to die.

But she wouldn't let him drag her down, too.

* * *

**Jason Vaz, 15  
****District Seven**

He was ready.

Jason drummed his fingers nervously on the table. Maybe he wasn't completely ready, but he was as ready as he was ever going to be. Saoirse sat beside him, finishing a midnight snack. Viktoria and Hazel sat on a couch in the corner, speaking in hushed whispers.

"It looks like we made the right choice," Saoirse pointed out, nodding towards Viktoria. "Not teaming up with her alliance, that is."

Jason nodded. An Avox and the Robber Prince didn't exactly make for the most promising allies during the Games. They would attract plenty of attention, of course – but the wrong kind. If Viktoria had any sense at all, she would break off the alliance and go it alone, or split off with her other ally, the boy from Ten.

It wasn't his problem, of course. Not really. He and Saoirse had offered Viktoria an alliance. She had turned them down. She had chosen her own allies, allies she had thought would be more useful. Allies who had seemed more promising.

It wasn't his fault she had been wrong.

And, if he was being honest, part of him was quite satisfied with the way things had turned out. Maybe he and Saoirse weren't the strongest or most skilled allies ever, but at least they didn't have targets on their backs. They hadn't given the Gamemakers any reason to single them out. No one had any reason to notice them.

Not yet.

At last, Viktoria and Hazel made their way back to the table. Viktoria looked understandably upset. Hazel simply looked tired. Hazel gave Viktoria a nod, and Viktoria sighed reluctantly.

"We need to talk."

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

He was ready.

Fletcher leaned back against the couch, hands tucked behind his head. Carolina and Shilo were off in one corner, whispering to each other. Enzo sat beside him on the couch, pale and shaking now that the depth of what he had done was finally beginning to sink in.

"That was very brave of you," Fletcher said at last, giving the little boy's shoulders a squeeze.

"Brave and stupid," Lander countered, glaring at the two of them. "Are you two _trying _to get yourselves killed? What could possibly have possessed you – _either_ of you – to make you think that claiming to be a criminal mastermind was _a good idea_?"

"I … I don't know," Enzo admitted. "I wasn't planning to. It just sort of … happened." He looked up at Fletcher. "It's like you said. Everyone wants to be someone who can stand up to the Capitol and make a difference. And, for a few minutes … it felt like I was."

Fletcher was beaming with pride, but Lander quickly dampened the mood. "Don't you understand yet? People who stand up to the Capitol _die_ in the Games. You two guaranteed your deaths tonight – and not just your own, but your family, your friends, anyone close to you. Anyone the Capitol can take this out on, you can be certain they will."

Fletcher nodded. If the Capitol managed to find the rest of the Brotherhood, they were as good as dead. But that would have been just as true had he remained silent during the interviews.

Enzo, however, was shaking. "They won't really hurt my family, will they? They didn't do anything."

"Of course they didn't!" Lander growled. "Are you really naïve enough to think that the Capitol has a problem with killing a few innocent people if it sends a message? The same Capitol that has no trouble sending twenty-four children into a _fight to the death_? Wake up! They won't think twice about killing your family. And by the time they're done with you in the arena, you'll be _begging _them to kill you! In fact—"

He would probably have gone on much longer, but a knock on the door interrupted him. Grumbling, Lander got to his feet and answered it. On the other side, however, was someone none of them had expected. Silas Grisom stepped right past Lander and plopped down in a seat across from Fletcher.

"We need to talk."

* * *

**Radiance Allor, 17  
****District Nine**

No one thought she was ready.

Radiance watched as the others headed for bed, all trying to seem confident. All trying to look ready. All knowing she was doing the same. All convinced she was as nervous as they were.

But she wasn't.

Now that it came down to it, she didn't feel nervous. She was still afraid, but it wasn't the sharp, overwhelming terror she had felt at the reaping. Whatever was going to happen would happen, and there was nothing she could do to change that now.

Nothing except get some rest.

Finally, she headed for her own room and sank down on the bed, trying to collect her thoughts. Trying to make sense of the odd feeling that wouldn't leave her alone. The feeling that she was ready for this.

That maybe she had been born for this.

Radiance stretched out on the bed. She had never felt prepared for anything in her life. Not for her mother's death. Not for the burden of helping to provide for the family. Not for the price she'd had to pay, the sacrifice she'd made for years so that her family could survive. None of it had been her choice. She hadn't been ready for any of it.

But now she was. Now that she finally thought about it, what did she have to lose? Her pride? Her dignity? She had lost those a long time ago. Her youth? Her innocence? They were long gone. Her life? What good was her life back in District Nine, anyway? What did she have to go back to? Who would miss her?

Now, perhaps, she finally had a chance for a better one. If she made it home, she could leave her old life behind. Her guilt, her memories, her job. Maybe she could finally have the normal life she had always wanted.

Maybe all she had to do was take it.

* * *

**Hogan Graham, 18  
****District Ten**

Everyone thought he was ready.

Hogan drummed his fingers on the table. Glenn, Corvo, and Grace sat on the couch, with Tess watching mutely from her wheelchair nearby. Glenn was giving last-minute advice, probably. Advice Hogan had told him he didn't need, because he had thought he was ready.

But he wasn't ready.

Now that it came down to it, he just wished someone would give _him_ a little advice. Give _him_ a little help. He needed it just as much as the others did, but he had spent the last few days pretending he didn't. Pretending to be strong. Pretending to be ready. He had fooled everyone.

But he couldn't fool them forever.

Suddenly, to his surprise, the little girl waved him over. Hogan hesitated for a moment, but then joined them on the couch. Only as he got closer did he realize Glenn was holding a pen and a notebook. "What are you doing?"

It was Grace who answered. "He's writing down anything we tell him – anything we want to share, anything we want people to remember after we—" She swallowed hard, but finally managed to get the words out. "After we die."

"I'm not planning on dying."

"No one is," Grace pointed out. "But at least two of us are going to, so … well, what's the harm? If you survive, you can always come back and tear the pages up."

Hogan rolled his eyes. "Is that what she did?" he asked, gesturing towards Tess. "Maybe she got out and realized she'd already wrapped everything up in District Ten – already told people everything she wanted them to know, already said goodbye – so what was the point of coming back?" He shook his head.

"I plan to tell them myself."

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

"I just don't feel ready."

Lynher fiddled nervously with the buttons on his nightshirt. "I don't know what I expected, really," he admitted. "I mean, it's only been a few days. Why should I feel any differently now than I did at the reaping. But I guess I expected to feel _something_. Some sort of difference. Something to let me know that, if nothing else, I'm as ready as I'm going to get, because tomorrow … Well, that's it. If I'm not ready tomorrow, I'm never going to be. Does that make any sense?"

Elijah nodded patiently. "Absolutely. But I don't think there's ever a moment when you feel ready for the Games. Not really. I never had one. I got to the finale, and I still didn't feel ready. It wasn't until I was safe – not until I was sitting onstage with Cornelius, and everyone else was dead – that I realized maybe I was more ready for the Games than I'd thought."

"And you still think I have a chance."

"Of course. In fact, I think the fact that you don't feel ready … I think it's a good thing. People who feel ready – they might overestimate themselves, think they're more prepared than they are. My allies certainly did. The fact that you _know_ you're not ready, that you _know_ you really have no idea what to expect – that puts you a step ahead of everyone who's fooled themselves into believing they know exactly what to do."

Lynher nodded a little. He hadn't thought about it like that. If nothing else, he certainly wasn't overestimating himself. He was being honest with himself. He was being realistic.

But would that be enough?

At last, Lynher and Elijah got up and headed for their rooms. Lynher threw his arms around Elijah and gave him a pat on the back. "Whatever happens … Thank you. For everything. You're a wonderful mentor."

Elijah stared for a moment, surprised. Then he smiled.

"I hope it's enough."

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

"I just don't feel ready."

Blythe gripped Brennan's hand tightly as the two of them sat on the couch with Silas, who had returned a few minutes before, saying only that he'd left to run an errand. Francis had already gone to bed. No point in staying up and worrying, he had said. Maybe he wasn't worried. Maybe he was ready.

But she wasn't.

Silas simply shrugged. "How _could_ you be? How could you be ready for every possible arena, every mutt, every tribute you might run into?"

Blythe shook her head. "That's not what I meant. No matter what the arena is, a few things stay the same. We still have to kill. And _that's_ what I don't feel ready for."

"I'd be worried if you did," Silas admitted. "Honestly, I find that more frightening than anything else in the Games – a child who's already prepared to take a life." He shook his head. "Think it through, Blythe. You're old enough to remember a few Games. Whose stories really stayed with you?"

Blythe thought hard, but she couldn't think of anyone. District Twelve didn't have any victors, and the other tributes had never really stood out.

It was Brennan who answered. "Elijah, last year."

Silas nodded. "Easy answer. That was last year. Who else?"

"Crispin – the one who went after all the mutts."

Silas smiled a little. "Longest Games ever, but he survived because he held the audience's interest. Who else?"

"The girl from Five – the one who got a one in training. And a couple Careers, but I don't remember—"

Silas giggled. "Exactly. No one remembers when things go according to plan – when the strongest or the most prepared tribute wins the Games. The audience is expecting that. They don't want to see what they're expecting. Part of the reason for this particular Quell, I'd imagine."

"So you're saying they don't _want_ a Career to win."

"Not all the time," Silas agreed. "They don't want to see a ready-made killer win _every _time. Those aren't the stories we remember. The ones they latch onto are the ones who _become _killers, the ones who enter the Games feeling unprepared and unsure but then realize they have it in them to win." He smiled a little.

"And I think both of you do."

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

The knocking caught him by surprise.

Silas opened the door hesitantly. He wasn't expecting anyone. But on the other side stood Mags, with Misha and Elijah behind her. Silas cocked an eyebrow. "Something I can do for you?"

Mags smiled a little. "We came to invite you. Well, I did, at least. I came to invite all of the new mentors, actually – and there are three of you this year. There's a place downstairs where we usually go to … well, to relax, to watch the Games together."

Silas nodded. "So I've been told. But my predecessor gave me the impression it was only intended for victors."

Mags shook her head. "Then your predecessor was misinformed. I've made the same invitation for years, but the last few mentors for Twelve haven't taken me up on it. I guess they don't like feeling like the odd man out. So I understand if you don't want to come, but I figured I'd—"

Silas held up his hand. "I'd love to. And as for feeling like the odd man out, I'm rather used to that already. Lead on."

Mags led them downstairs, then to a room off to the side. Silas gave a chuckle as they entered. "A bar, huh? So you come here to relax, blow off a little steam, get drunk out of your wits…"

Mags nodded. "Any and all of the above, depending on the time and the stage of the Games. Once mentors' tributes start to die, they tend to let go a little more. And Alistern's always very understanding."

Ivy quickly waved Elijah over to a spot near her. Misha retreated to a corner at the far end of the room. Small groups sat at tables or on couches. Silas followed Mags to the bar counter, where a tall, thin man with a funny mustache turned to greet them. "And you must be the new mentor for Twelve!" he grinned, passing Mags a drink. "Alistern Elbridge, at your service."

"Silas Grisom at yours."

Alistern smiled at Mags. "Think he'll last longer than the last few?"

Mags couldn't hide a sympathetic wince. "You'll have to forgive Alistern; he doesn't have much tact. But his drinks are excellent."

Silas shrugged. "There's nothing to forgive. Mentors don't seem to last long in Twelve. But I'm planning to be here as long as they need me. Of course, I'm hoping they only need me this year."

Alistern rolled his eyes. "Don't count on it."

"Didn't say I was counting on it. Said I was hoping for it. There's a difference."

"That there is," Mags agreed. "And the fact that you already understand that puts you a few steps ahead of Twelve's last few mentors. I think you're going to fit in just fine."

Silas already had a feeling she was right.

* * *

"_Ready?"_

"_Why do your people always ask if someone is ready right before you're going to do something massively unwise?"_

"_Tradition."_


	28. Unless You're Sure

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And it's finally here! Just a couple of things before we begin.

First, the blog. Deaths and locations will be updated on the blog as the story progresses. I keep a header at the top of the tribute page with the current chapter and day in the arena, so hopefully that will be enough to avoid spoilers. (Seems to have worked pretty well the last two times around.) I'll also have an arena map up, which will make it a bit easier to keep track of where the tributes are. As mutts start to appear, those will be on the blog, too.

Secondly, the results of the sponsor poll are up on the blog. Congratulations to the top three tributes, who will, at some point, be receiving a sponsor gift. They may not be the _only _tributes who get sponsor gifts, but they are the only ones who are _guaranteed _to get something.

Third, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who your favorite mentors are. This doesn't have a huge effect on things, but I do start and end the Games chapters from an outside perspective – a mentor, the Gamemakers, the president, and so on – so if there's a character people are really enjoying, I tend to showcase them a bit more.

Lastly, I'm going to apologize in advance, and I'm only going to apologize once. Chances are good – just over 97%, in fact – that your tribute is going to die. I'm sorry, but that's the way the Games are, and you knew that when you submitted. If whining or flaming or no longer reading the story makes you feel better, that's okay. I'm big enough to take it, but it isn't going to change anything. Dead is dead.

On the other hand, thank you to those of you who stick with the story even after your tribute is gone.

So, on that cheery note, let the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games begin!

* * *

**Bloodbath  
****Unless You're Sure**

* * *

**Alistern Elbridge  
****Bartender**

He always waited until the last minute.

Alistern fingered the betting pad in his hands, waiting. He was on a four-year winning streak with his predictions – a streak he wasn't eager to break. Sometimes, he'd predicted a tribute a few hours before the Games started, but, most of the time, he liked to wait. Sometimes he would see something at the last moment – a little flinch or sideways glance that would change his mind.

So while the other viewers were simply waiting in anticipation, counting down the seconds before the gong would go off, he was always watching. Studying. Noticing things that others wouldn't.

And, so far, it had paid off. Out of the twenty-four victors so far, he had correctly named thirteen. Hopefully, this year would make it fourteen.

The platforms began to rise.

The tributes stood in a dimly-lit room, the layout of which Alistern recognized immediately as a bar. Where the cornucopia usually lay, there was a bar counter, perhaps five feet tall, encircling a circular area about ten feet in diameter. Some of the supplies were tucked neatly inside this area, while others lay strewn outside. Two wide doorways led out of the room on opposite sides – one painted blue, the other painted green.

The rest of the bar looked like it had recently been through a bar fight. Tables and chairs were overturned and strewn about the room. But six round tables still stood, each perhaps fifty feet from the cornucopia, forming a circle around it. Around each of the tables, six tributes were positioned, perhaps five feet from the table. Last of all, a knife had been temptingly placed in the center of each of the tables.

_Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…_

Calissa, Niles, Viktoria, Enzo, Asteria, and Bakaari stood around the table closest to the green doorway. Niles clenched his fists, eyeing the knife on the table, while Calissa's attention was already on the center of the room. Viktoria's gaze darted frantically around the room, taking everything in. Asteria and Bakaari were searching the tables for their allies. Enzo's eyes were fixed on the door.

_Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine…_

The camera panned counter-clockwise, revealing Alasdair, Kinley, Mirami, Cassandra, Fletcher, and Corvo at the next table. Fletcher was glancing around, trying to get Corvo's attention, as well as the attention of Niles and Viktoria at the other table, but only Niles was watching him. Corvo was already eyeing the door. Mirami was eyeing the knife on the table, but so was Cassandra. Alasdair met Enzo's gaze and nodded as the other boy gestured towards the door. Kinley was scanning the other tables, looking for her allies.

_Forty-two, forty-one, forty…_

Henri, Adrian, Eigen, Saoirse, Jazz, and Francis stood around the next table. Adrian and Francis had their eyes on the supplies in the center. Henri glanced from one door to the other, perhaps trying to decide which to run for. Eigen found Mirami's gaze, and she nodded back crisply. A decision had been made. Saoirse clenched her fists, glancing around nervously. Jazz was eyeing one of the overturned tables behind her.

_Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one…_

Daedem, Ryzer, Jason, Radiance, Grace, and Brennan encircled the table nearest the blue doorway. Grace and Brennan had already located their other two allies and were watching the door closely, prepared to take off the moment the gong sounded. Ryzer was eyeing the knife on the table. Radiance's gaze was fixed on Henri, trying to figure out which way she meant to go. Jason and Daedem were both eyeing the center of the room.

_Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…_

Elaine, Dewan, Natasha, Luke, Lynher, and Blythe stood around the next table. Elaine and Blythe exchanged glances with Brennan and Grace at the next table, all coming to the same conclusion. Lynher, likewise, had located his allies, but both of them seemed more interested in the supplies around the counter. Nathasha, Dewan, and Luke were studying each other across the table, but all three glanced occasionally at the knife.

_Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…_

Simone, Barclay, Mercury, Shilo, Dennar, and Hogan circled the last table. Hogan met Simone's gaze and nodded towards the knife on the table, perfectly willing to let his ally have it in favor of the more promising weapons in the center of the room. Shilo and Dennar had both located their allies, made their decisions. Barclay flashed Mercury an encouraging smile, gave Kinley a wink, and nodded at Asteria.

_Six._

Alistern took one last look around, then typed in a name.

_Three, two, one._

The lights went out.

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

The lights went out.

Simone took a few quick steps towards the table and reached for the knife, anyway. The darkness didn't change her plan. In fact, it made it easier. Because, in the faint glow that came from the two doorways, she could see that he was still standing there. Startled. Hesitating. Just for a moment.

But that moment was enough.

She didn't think. She didn't give herself time to. Taking a deep breath, she sank the knife deep into his back, hoping. Hoping it would be enough to kill, because if he got the chance to strike back, she was as good as dead.

Hogan gasped in surprise and pain as he crumpled to the ground. Simone quickly stepped backwards, thinking that maybe he was faking. Maybe as soon as she stepped forward to finish the job, he would spring up and kill her.

But then the cannon sounded.

She had done it.

All around her, tributes were running. A few were shouting for their allies. More were dashing for the door. A few were running towards the center of the room. All of them were in a hurry.

But she wasn't. Not any more. She had done what she'd had in mind since the countdown started. What Vester had suggested the night before. Take out a stronger opponent, someone who wouldn't be expecting it, someone whose death would impress the audience.

She hoped they were impressed now.

* * *

**Natasha Kovaćić, 16  
****District Three**

The lights went out.

Natasha leapt out of the way as Dewan and Luke both lunged for the knife. In the split second it had taken her to think, they had acted. That decided it. The two of them could kill each other if they wanted, but she wouldn't be going down with them.

She ran for the blue door.

Only after she made it halfway to the door did she realize he was calling her name. "Natasha!" Dewan yelled, calling for her to come back. "Natasha!"

For a moment, she hesitated. That had been his plan – to take down Luke together. Maybe he thought he wouldn't be able to do it alone. But if she ran back now…

No. No, she had to leave him. Them. Both of them.

She had to take care of herself.

Natasha kept running, as quickly as she could convince herself to move amid the debris. All around her, feet were shuffling, mixed with cries from those who had either tripped over something or run into a table. Suddenly, Natasha slammed into another tribute. Dazed, she got to her feet, taking off as quickly as she could.

"Come on, Elaine, we have to go!" she heard a voice behind her, maybe calling to the tribute she had knocked over. Some of the footsteps stopped. Stopped to help their ally.

Should she have done the same?

No. No, she couldn't start thinking like that. Couldn't start second-guessing herself. She was on her own now. That was all there was to it. She was alone.

And it was better that way.

* * *

**Mirami Fiyan, 14  
****District Five**

The lights went off.

Mirami snatched up the knife before the other girl could react. But once it was in her hand, she hesitated. Would the others still follow her? Would they still attack?

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe she could do this alone.

Without thinking, she lunged for Niles, who now had a knife of his own. In the dark, the two of them quickly toppled onto the floor, rolling over scattered bits of tables and chairs, each trying to gain the upper hand. He was bigger, but she was quicker. And, sooner or later, her allies would join her.

Maybe.

Finally, she got her hand free – enough to manage a swipe to his arm, drawing blood. Niles cried out in pain but grabbed hold of her wrist before she could strike again, pulling her closer with one hand, his knife in the other. Pain shot through Mirami's shoulder before she could pull away.

Then something struck her in the head.

Dazed, Mirami dropped her knife, sputtering, coughing blood. Niles quickly took advantage of his moment, driving his knife into her chest and flinging her body off of his. In the dark, Mirami thought she could make out a shape. An older boy holding a piece of something – maybe a table leg.

Whatever it was, it was hurtling down towards her head. Pain flooded through her body. She could taste blood.

Niles was climbing to his feet. She had failed. She had failed Harakuise. Failed District Five. Failed herself. She only had one hope left.

She hoped Shilo and Eigen had gotten away.

* * *

**Niles Avdeyev, 16  
****District Five**

The girl's cannon sounded.

Niles scrambled to his feet as the girl's allies – the older boy from Three and the girl from Eight – ran off through the green door nearby. No point in chasing them now. He was already injured. Already breathing hard. Chances were, they were already too far gone.

"I'm sorry."

Fletcher's voice. Of course it had been him. The other boy held what looked, in the dim light, like a chair leg – perhaps broken off one of the chairs, perhaps something he had found lying around or maybe even stumbled over.

Niles shook his head. He wanted to tell Fletcher not to apologize. After all, none of his other allies had even come to lend a hand. It didn't matter if Fletcher had arrived a little late. He had come. That was all that mattered.

"I'm sorry."

The words echoed in the dark as Fletcher took a step closer, then reached down to pick up the knife that the girl had dropped. Niles hesitated. Why had he said it again? What did he have to be sorry for? Was he apologizing to the girl? She was dead. And she had attacked first. She hadn't given them any choice.

Had he simply gone mad?

Fletcher put a hand on Niles' shoulder. "I'm sorry."

This time, Niles understood. Because this time, Fletcher drove the knife into his chest.

Niles stared. Why? Why save him, only to kill him? Why turn on the one ally he had left? The one he had called a kindred spirit? Why would he do this?

But he couldn't ask any of his questions. He could only stare up at Fletcher, eyes burning with hatred and confusion as he sank to the floor. He clenched his teeth. _Damn you. All of you._

Niles closed his eyes, surrendering to the pain at last.

His cannon sounded.

Then the lights came on.

* * *

**Viktoria Halisent, 16  
****District Seven**

The lights came on.

Viktoria cursed under her breath. Just a few more seconds. She only needed a few more seconds.

She had been careful. Taken advantage of the dark. While the other tributes had been running around blindly, she had silently crept to the center of the room, then climbed over the counter and into the protected area in the center. She had thought it was so clever.

But now it made her a target.

She had come to get weapons. That was the plan. The new plan. She would go for weapons, and Jason and Saoirse would go for food and supplies. She had been hoping to sort through the weapons and pick out the best, but now she didn't have the time to be choosy. She grabbed the one closest to her – a long, thin spear – and started to clamber back over the counter. Maybe she could be quick enough. Maybe no one would notice.

But someone did.

The knife was in her chest before she could shout. Not enough to kill, but enough to bring her to her knees. Viktoria flung the spear blindly in the direction of her attacker, but the girl from Four dodged easily, then picked up the spear from where it had clattered to the floor. "I'll take that," she shrugged.

Then she drove the spear into Viktoria's chest.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

The lights came on.

Dewan grunted as he landed another punch, rolling over a little as he and Luke both struggled to get to their feet. They had lost the knife – one of them must have kicked it aside, and both had been unable to find it in the dark. Instead, they had struck blow after blow, each tiring, but each unwilling to give in.

Because giving in now meant death.

Dewan struck again, but, even as he did, Luke's fist found his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Dewan swung, but his blow struck limply against the older boy's shoulder. Now that it came down to it, Luke was simply bigger. Stronger.

Then he saw the girl.

Luke's district partner. The one with the sing-song voice and the eye patch. She was watching them. Almost giddy with laughter.

And she was holding the knife.

For a moment, their eyes locked. The distraction gave Luke time to land another blow, drawing blood from a cut on Dewan's face. But it didn't matter. Because the girl was about to throw the knife.

He didn't have time to dodge. The knife grazed his leg, but only a little. Before Luke could react, Dewan gave the knife a kick, out of Luke's reach.

But not out of his.

In one swift move, he grabbed the knife and struck. The blade plunged deep into Luke's throat. Soon, the cannon sounded.

Dewan glanced around, hoping to thank the girl, but she had already run off. Probably for the best. She had probably been trying to make it look like she was trying to kill him, rather than throwing him the knife. Any sort of gratitude wouldn't help either of them.

His head pounding and his body aching, Dewan got to his feet and stumbled towards the blue door. No time to think about gratitude. And no time to think about supplies. He had a knife, but he was in no condition now to fight.

But he was alive.

* * *

**Jazz Farnahm, 17  
****District Eleven**

She was waiting for the perfect target.

Jazz held her breath as tribute after tribute passed her by on their way out the blue door. But they all seemed to be in a group or simply be empty-handed. Not worth attacking. Not worth stealing supplies from.

The girl from Three had been the first to leave, but she hadn't had any supplies that Jazz could see. The younger tributes from Twelve, along with the girls from One and Ten, had followed, also empty-handed. The older girls from One and Nine had quickly followed, but they hadn't had anything worth taking, either. Nor had the younger boy from Two, after the lights had come on. All empty-handed.

All useless.

Jazz ducked lower as Lynher and his allies passed. They had supplies – a few backpacks they had snatched from outside the counter – but she couldn't take on all three of them at once. Not without Bakaari, and, so far, she hadn't seen him.

Not that she'd been looking. She'd ducked behind the overturned table as quickly as she could, waiting. Hoping Ivy's suggestion would pay off. If she could catch someone by surprise, she might be able to overpower them quickly enough, without the risk of going towards the fighting herself.

Then she saw him. The boy from Seven, a pack flung over his back, but no weapons that she could see. He was alone. Unarmed. And completely unaware. She waited until he had just passed her, then sprang from behind and flung him to the floor.

This was almost too easy.

* * *

**Jason Vaz, 15  
****District Seven**

He was on the floor.

For a moment, that was all Jason knew. His head slammed into the metal floor, quickly blurring his vision. He was only vaguely aware of the fact that someone was pulling the pack off his back. No. No, that was his. It was supposed to be his. He clutched at it blindly. A hand swatted him away.

Then something fell on him.

It took Jason a moment to realize that it was a body. The body of the girl who had attacked him. She was still staring, her eyes wide with shock.

And standing above them both, bloody knife in her hand, Saoirse looked just as surprised.

Fighting the dizziness and the pain in his head, Jason scrambled to his feet. He quickly freed the pack – _his _pack – from the other girl's grip and flung it over his back once more. Then he grabbed Saoirse's arm. "Let's go."

Saoirse shook her head, still staring at the girl. "She's not dead. She's not dead."

She was right. The girl was still gasping for breath – weakly, her breathing shallow, eyes wide and pleading. "She will be soon," Jason reasoned. They could either finish her themselves or leave her. Either way, they would have to be quick. The noise around the cornucopia was dying down. The others would soon be looking for stragglers. Weaklings.

Saoirse's face was pale as she knelt down beside the dying girl, but she took a deep breath, gripped the knife, and as quickly as she could, drew it across the other girl's throat. Instantly, the cannon sounded.

And the lights went out.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

The lights went out.

Barclay barely avoided crashing into Asteria as the four of them came to a halt. They had left the glow of the door far behind; the hallway they now stood in was pitch black. He had seen a few others running the same direction. The older boy from Three and the girl from Eight. The younger boys from Three and Eight and the boy from Nine. And one of the boys from Ten, far ahead of them.

None of them had been looking for a fight.

Not that they had anything to fight over at the moment. When the lights had gone off the first time, Barclay hadn't even thought about grabbing supplies. And, apparently, none of his allies had, either. After all, if they'd gone after supplies, they may very well have lost track of each other.

How were they supposed to have known the lights would come back on?

"Three," Asteria mumbled quietly.

"What?" Kinley asked.

"Three," Asteria repeated. "I think it's a pattern. I think it's important."

"Three what?" Barclay asked, confused.

"Three tributes. Three tributes from each district. Why three, if they weren't going to use the number anywhere else? But I think they are."

"What are you talking about?" Mercury asked.

"Three cannons. Three cannons, and the lights came on. Three cannons, and they went off again. What if it's a pattern?"

Silence for a moment. Then Barclay chuckled a little. "I wasn't even counting."

"Neither was I," Kinley admitted.

"Me, neither," Mercury agreed.

Barclay felt around a little in the dark until he found Asteria, then clapped her on the back. "I'm glad we've got you, then."

* * *

**Brenann Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

The lights went out.

Brennan gave Blythe's hand a squeeze as the group came to a halt. "We have to get out of here," Grace suggested. "If we can get out of the building, there'll be daylight, and we can figure out where to go next."

That sounded reasonable. But there had been a few arenas – a skyscraper, an airport, a shopping center – where the tributes couldn't leave the building even when they tried. The doors were barred, or guarded by mutts, or simply didn't exist. But it was certainly worth trying, if it would get them away from this constant darkness.

"Let's go, then," he agreed. "But carefully. And quietly. We don't know who else ran this way." One of the older girls had made it to the door first after crashing into Elaine, and a few other had followed, but, in the dark, he hadn't been able to tell who.

Slowly, keeping a hand on the right-hand wall to keep a sense of direction, Brennan led the group onward in the dark. Every so often, a hallway branched off sharply, and he had to grope around to find the wall again, but the main passageway seemed to be perfectly straight.

Just when he was about to suggest stopping for a rest, Grace cried out. "Look! There's light up there!"

She was right. The light was faint, but it was definitely coming from up ahead. The four of them pushed on a little faster. Soon, the walls fell away, and the four of them stood, staring.

They were in a large, domed room, filled with screens and monitors, with a few chairs scattered around. The ceiling and the walls were both made of glass, and the light came from the sky – a sky full of stars.

It was Blythe who noticed it first. "They're moving. The stars."

Brennan shook his head. "I don't think so." He hurried to the other end of the room, peering out the glass wall in front of him. The view was changing – slowly, steadily, but it wasn't the stars that were moving. "I think _we_ are." The others quickly joined him, and Grace actually began to laugh a little.

"I don't think we're going outside."

* * *

**Adrian Mors, 18  
****District Two**

Nothing had gone as planned.

Adrian had been planning to rush for the cornucopia, but, when the lights had gone off, he had frozen, simply listening to the chaos around him, trying to get a feel for what was going on. It had been so fast. The lights had come on again so quickly, and he had run for the cornucopia then. He had seen Calissa already there, seen her spear the girl from Seven with her own weapon. But, just as he had reached the weapons himself, the lights had gone off again.

Since then, there had been no cannons. The room had cleared. Only three of them remained, as far as he could tell – Calissa, Simone, and himself.

"Where's Hogan?" he asked, not even sure if he was asking one of the others or simply speaking out loud.

"I haven't seen him," Calissa answered.

"Me, neither," Simone agreed.

No one had seen him? Was he dead? Had he run off? "We can worry about him later," Calissa decided. "Right now, we should search the cornucopia, see if we can find anything useful in the dark – a flashlight, a headlamp, some night vision glasses, anything. Anything that'll give us an advantage over the others."

Adrian nodded. "Makes sense." And it did. A little too much sense. Had gaining such an advantage truly been this easy? He hadn't even done anything. Hadn't even killed anyone.

Then again, as far as he knew, neither had Simone. She certainly hadn't spoken up and claimed a kill. For the moment, it seemed, that made Calissa the leader, and Simone seemed content with that.

Adrian wished he was.

After a little searching, they didn't find any flashlights, but they did find three pair of night-vision glasses scattered among the supplies. "Only three," Calissa noted. "How did they know there would only be three of us?"

Adrian shrugged. "Maybe they didn't. Maybe they wanted us fighting over who wouldn't get a pair. Doesn't matter. There are enough for all of us."

He just hoped the three of them would be enough.

* * *

**Cassnadra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

Everything was settling down.

Cassandra smiled a little as she and Ryzer settled down in the hallway just outside the cornucopia room. "Did you find anything?" Cassandra asked, keeping her voice to a whisper. Staying near the cornucopia was risky, of course, but it was worth the risk. The glow from the door provided a little light, and the supplies were nearby. The others couldn't stay by the cornucopia to guard the supplies forever, and, when they left, the supplies would be theirs for the taking.

Ryzer pulled out a knife. Cassandra fought back a surge of envy. But she'd found something of her own, as well. She pulled a pair of night vision glasses from her pocket. "Nice. I found these."

Ryzer giggled and clapped her hands a little, but her eyes were still on her own knife. "_One on the table, one on the floor, but I threw one and ran out the door._"

So Ryzer had grabbed the knife, found another, and thrown it at … who? "Threw one at who?"

"_Luke was fighting boy from Two – threw but didn't do much good._"

So Ryzer had seen Luke and Dewan fighting. "Who won?" Who died?

"_Didn't see all, ran out alive, but Luke's cannon was number five._"

_Sound less cheery about it, or Vernon will suspect something, _Cassandra thought, but said nothing of the sort. Instead, she put on her best solemn expression. "But the boy from Two is still alive? Not for much longer. We'll find him. Avenge Luke."

Ryzer's cheery expression dropped for a moment. "_We could kill the boy, but then? Would not bring Luke back again._"

Cassandra nodded. "No. No, it won't bring Luke back. But it would make me feel better." And it would make Vernon feel better. And it had to happen, sooner or later. They had to start killing eventually

Might as well start with him.

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

His eyes never left the screen.

Harakuise watched as the Avdeyev's execution was broadcast immediately after the bloodbath. The three of them – the father, the boy, and the girl – were paraded through the streets of District Five, whipped by Peacekeepers as they walked and pelted by stones from the crowd.

Once they reached the square, their hands were bound, and they were strung up side by side and whipped to death without mercy or remorse. The girl died first. Then her brother. Then, last of all, their father, still flinging curses at those who had killed his children. But, in the end, he died, and the three bodied, mangled and broken, were left hanging in the square as a reminder.

If he'd had his way, it would only have been two.

Separated from her family, the girl could have been useful. She had a sharp mind, and, if he'd been able to steer it in the right direction, she could have been a valuable asset. But, after what Niles had done, he no longer had any reason to spare her life. And every reason to have her killed.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she would have been just as stubborn, just as unreasonable, as her older brother. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to convince her of her error.

But he had wanted to try.

Harakuise shook his head. Niles was dead, killed by his own ally. Mirami was dead, as well. His plan for her to kill Niles had always been a risky one, but, if the other boy hadn't shown up, she might have managed it.

Harakuise got up slowly and took a seat by Silas. "What did you offer him?"

Silas turned, feigning surprise. "Pardon?"

"The boy from Eight. The famous Robber Prince. He wouldn't have turned on an ally like that without a very good reason. Lander and Carolina are too focused on trying to save the tribute who _didn't_ spend the interviews claiming to be a criminal to come up with something like this. And it wasn't me. So what did you offer him?"

Silas shook his head. "The only thing I could. I'm a mentor, yes, but I'm also a lawyer. I have contacts in Eight, just like you. I was able to secure a pardon for one of his friends. Only one, mind you, and they'll still be carefully watched by the Capitol, but life is life. But the agreement was only valid if _he _was the one to kill Niles."

Harakuise nodded. "Because then the Capitol audience sees what they want to see – that rebels and criminals are traitorous folk who will turn on each other at the earliest opportunity."

"Exactly."

"And the other four?"

"Four?"

Harakuise shrugged. "As you said, I have contacts in Eight, as well. Five teenagers were arrested for their connections to the true Robber Prince – as well as Enzo's family on account of his stupidity. If you're planning to free one, that leaves four. So what of them?"

Silas shook his head. "They'll be executed – privately. Better for the districts and the Capitol to believe that Fletcher was working alone. The actions of one deluded mind are far less dangerous than the truth that he had support. As for Enzo's family, they'll be publicly whipped and humiliated, but they're more useful alive, as a reminder of the Capitol's … mercy."

Harakuise nodded. "Fair enough." The boy's family was innocent, after all, of everything but having a big mouth. Enzo had probably never stolen anything in his life, and claiming Fletcher's identity had been more a momentary fit of bravery and a desire to be noticed than any sort of rebellion. "Just one more question."

Silas smiled a little. "Anything."

"If you don't mind my asking, why is any of this your concern? Tributes from Five and Eight. Fletcher, Niles, their families – Why do you care?"

Silas placed a hand on Harakuise's shoulder. "Because I'm like you, Harakuise. I'm a patriot. For twenty-five years, we have had peace, but not an easy peace. A hard-won, watchful peace that will only stand if we are vigilant. The guilty must be punished. The innocent must be protected. If we ever forget that, we are truly lost."

Harakuise nodded. "And your own tributes? You're not worried that your meddling might affect them?"

Silas shook his head. "They had the good sense to stay out of all of this. I might remind you that all three of _mine_ are still alive," he added with a smile.

"Point taken." His tributes were alive, while two of District Five's were dead. He held out his hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Silas."

Silas shook his hand warmly. "Likewise."

* * *

"_You should never hand someone a gun unless you're sure where they'll point it."_


	29. A Change of Perspective

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First, just a friendly reminder to vote in the mentor poll if you haven't already.

Second, there are quite a few tributes who didn't get much mention last chapter. This wasn't an oversight or anything – just a necessity due to the sheer number of tributes and my own desire not to write a 20-points-of-view bloodbath. (And the fact that most of the ones we didn't hear from were the ones who had the good sense to get out of there as quickly as possible and, therefore, didn't really do anything particularly interesting during the bloodbath.) Rest assured, if there's an alliance you wanted to hear from but didn't in the last chapter, they're in this one. Which is pretty much how it's going to work throughout the Games. Just because a specific tribute isn't in a certain chapter doesn't mean I don't like them or that they're not interesting. It simply means that the focus is on other tributes for that particular chapter, and, chances are, they'll be back in the next one. No one is going to simply disappear and die offstage.

A side effect of this is that most days are going to have more than one chapter – sometimes more than two. Day One, for example, is going to have three: the bloodbath chapter, this one, and one more after this. This seemed like a better option than writing obnoxiously long chapters, and will allow me to update a bit more frequently.

Third, I added some pictures and short descriptions of each of the different-colored sectors to the arena map, because I figured it would help keep track of what (and who) is where. This will be updated along with each chapter, as well, to correspond to where tributes are at the time.

* * *

**Day One  
****A Change of Perspective**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Are they really in space?"

Helius looked up, grinning, as President Hyde approached. "Technically, they're in orbit. We had them sedated for the trip up, of course – from the time they got on the hovercraft until they woke up in the launch rooms. Of course, for all they know, that's standard procedure. May take some of them a while to figure it out."

"But the gravity—"

Helius giggled. "Took us a while to get the rotation just right, but, yes, it works. That's the movement that the Twelves noticed."

Hyde shook his head, staring at the model of the arena – a long, cylindrical station divided into different colored sectors – brown at the rear, then grey, then green. Then came the red sector, followed by blue, then purple, and then, last of all, the observation dome that Elaine, Grace, Brennan, and Blythe had found.

Within the individual colors, each sector contained a maze of passageways, with several larger rooms branching off – each serving a basic function. A large medical lab lay in the purple sector, and several smaller living quarters in the blue sector. The barroom with the cornucopia lay in the center of the red sector, and a large room housing the station's gardens was nestled in the green sector. The grey sector was mostly machinery and the station's reactor, while the brown sector held the cargo bays and storage.

A shuttle – almost like a large train car – ran from one end of the station to the other, stopping and starting in random sectors, waiting for tributes to stumble inside. Outside the observation dome, the windows were less frequent, but Helius had little doubt that most of the tributes would soon happen to glance outside and realize where they were.

Hyde looked up. "And if they go outside—"

"I doubt any of them will manage to get outside. Not that they would last long if they found a way."

"But if they break through the walls—"

"Then the doors between the sections will automatically seal the area off. Any tributes unlucky enough to be in the same room will be killed, but the others will be perfectly safe."

"And the bodies—"

"Will be there for us to collect at the end. The environment in most of the station is sufficiently dry to keep them well-preserved for a while, and the whole place is quite sterile."

"What if we need to get the victor back in a hurry?"

Helius smiled, knowing he was remembering several years – the Sixth, the Tenth, the Fifteenth, the Eighteenth – when immediate treatment had been crucial. "There's a shuttle orbiting nearby with an emergency medical team in case something goes wrong. They can dock within minutes – almost as fast as a hovercraft would be able to reach a normal arena."

At last, Hyde nodded. "It looks like you've thought of everything."

Helius grinned. "That's my job. Now stop fretting and go enjoy the rest of the Games."

Hyde smiled a little. "I think I will."

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

It could be a lot worse.

Dennar squeezed Alasdair and Enzo's hands tightly as the three of them pushed onward in the dark. They were all alive. They were safe. They didn't have any supplies, but they had each other. They had a reason to keep going.

There were other tributes nearby; he had seen them before the lights went out. Asteria and her alliance had run the same way. But, as far as he could tell, they didn't have any supplies, either. No food. No weapons. Nothing worth fighting over.

Not that Asteria and her allies had seemed like the sort who would start a fight, anyway, but better safe than sorry. "Let's go this way," he suggested at last, giving the younger two a slight tug to the left. "It'll probably be safer away from the main hallway." Hopefully, leaving the main passage would make it harder for others to find them.

On the other hand, it might make it harder for them to find their way around. They might run into a dead end, or get lost and unable to find their way back to the main passage. But he didn't bother saying that. The other two were looking to him to lead. Counting on him to be strong. And he could do it. He had to.

He had to be strong for them.

"Do you smell that?" Enzo asked after a while, interrupting his thoughts.

Dennar took a whiff, and was surprised to find that, yes, he did smell something. Something that smelled almost … alive. "This way, I think," he agreed, following his nose toward the smell.

Suddenly, the walls fell away, and the metal beneath their feet gave way to something that almost felt like dirt. Dennar knelt down to feel it. It _was_ dirt. And grass. Plants, in the middle of the building. Maybe some sort of indoor garden.

"Look!" Alasdair called, pointing off to the left. There, in the middle of the garden, was a large fountain. The stones around it gave off a fluorescent blue glow, lighting the water and the surrounding plants.

None of them thought twice. They simply rushed forward towards the water, grinning, almost laughing. "Shh," Dennar reminded them. Better not to make too much noise. Better not to draw too much attention.

They reached the fountain, and immediately began drinking. Dennar considered suggesting that they should try to clean it. But with what? They had nothing to make a fire to boil it with. No tablets or supplies to purify it with. Maybe it was better to take their chances.

After all, there were worse ways to go.

Dennar pushed the thought from his mind. No. No, he couldn't start thinking about what would be the best, least painful way to die. He wasn't going to die. He was going to live. He had to focus on that. Living for another minute, another hour, another day.

Because, eventually, those hours added up.

Dennar smiled a little as he and his allies drank their fill. A few hours had already passed. Six cannons had already sounded. And they were still alive. They had already outlasted six tributes. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was something.

It was a start.

* * *

**Henri Saunders, 18  
****District One**

It could be a lot worse.

Henri collapsed next to Radiance, exhausted from running. They were both tired. They had no supplies. No food. No water. No weapons.

But they were alive.

But they weren't safe. They couldn't stay in this main passageway forever. But, in the dark, it was impossible to tell which of the other hallways might lead somewhere and which were simply dead ends. Besides, they needed rest. Just for a moment.

"I wonder how long it's been," Radiance said quietly. Without any light, it was impossible to keep track of the time. It seemed like hours since the cannons had stopped. Six of them. Only six.

She had expected more, somehow. There were more of them this year, after all. More tributes should have meant more of them would die in the bloodbath. Instead, only six of the others were gone.

Henri shook her head in disgust. How could she be _upset_ that more people hadn't died? They were people, after all. Not just numbers. Not just cannons. Only six people had died, when it could have been ten, or fifteen.

But, in the end, the number would be thirty-five. Whether they died now or died later, they were all going to die. Maybe it would have been more merciful if they died immediately, rather than living a few more days in desperate hope, wondering which day might be their last.

Maybe it would be better if _she_ had died a few hours ago.

No. No, she couldn't start thinking like that – thinking about when she would rather die. She wasn't going to die. She was going to survive. She was going to live.

She just wished she believed it.

"We should get out of the hallway," Radiance suggested. "If anyone comes looking for tributes, this is the first place they'll check. We should try to find something out of the way. Something a bit more hidden."

Henri nodded. "Okay. Okay. Then we can rest."

"Sounds good," Radiance agreed, her voice just as tired, just as dry as Henri's. Henri slowly got to her feet. She had been expecting something outdoors. Something where they would be able to find food and water for themselves, even if they didn't get anything from the cornucopia. How could they find any supplies here? Would they have to go back?

Not yet. They would be okay for a while. Surely the Gamemakers wouldn't have created a completely barren arena. There had to be supplies somewhere. They just had to keep looking.

"Let's try this way," Radiance suggested, giving Henri's hand a squeeze and pulling her off to the right, where a smaller passageway led off into the dark. Henri swallowed hard, reminding herself that smaller was better. Smaller meant that other tributes might not think to look down this way. Smaller meant they were less likely to be found.

But smaller also meant it would be easier to get trapped.

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

He was alone.

Fletcher slammed his fist against the wall. His allies were gone – either dead or no longer allies. And the worst part was that he had no one to blame but himself. Himself and his own big mouth.

_He_ had told Niles he was the Robber Prince – right in the middle of the training area where anyone could have heard. _He_ had let the rabbit go during his private session, mocking the Gamemakers and earning a zero, which had earned him Corvo and Viktoria's suspicion. And _he_ had been unable to keep his big mouth shut during the interviews, unwilling to let Enzo take the blame for his actions, unwilling to shrug it off, pretend it had all been a joke, that he wasn't _really_ the Robber Prince.

It was his fault he was alone.

He could have played along. Could have been a good little tribute and followed the rules. Could have tried to keep his secret.

But then his friends might all be dead.

According to Silas, they'd been arrested after the goodbyes. If that was true, nothing he'd said during training or during the interviews had put them in more danger than they were already in. But, by revealing himself, and by going along with Silas' plan, he had ensured that one of them would live.

He just wished he could save more than one.

It had been difficult – probably the most difficult thing he'd ever done – to pick just one. Only one friend to save. But, in the end, he had decided on Davy. That was what the others would want. None of the others would ever forgive him if he chose them rather than their youngest, newest recruit. So he had made his choice. Davy was safe.

And Niles was dead.

Fletcher wrung his hands together, and some of the dried blood fell to the floor. He hadn't wanted to. If there had been any other way to save his friends – if his own death would have sufficed, instead – he would have taken it in a heartbeat. But Niles was going to die, anyway – that much was certain. He'd sealed his own fate the moment he'd made an attempt on Harakuise's life.

In fact, he'd probably sealed it before that. Chances were, neither of them had ever had any real hope of making it out of the arena alive. The Gamemakers had probably been instructed to see to it that both of them died.

And, if that was the case, what he'd done had been merciful.

Because he'd seen much crueler deaths inflicted on rebels in the arena. Replays of Vester's Games were commonplace; he was well-known for having tortured rebels to death. But he wasn't the only one. Once or twice, the Capitol had even stepped in to see to it that a rebel didn't win, and those deaths were never pleasant. One tribute had been sent poison as a sponsor gift. Another had been strung from a tree and slowly roasted alive. A third had been buried waist-down in a rock slide and slowly devoured by mutts.

Compared to that, he had been kind. Niles' death had been quick. It had been relatively painless.

And it had been far more merciful than what the Capitol probably had in mind for the Robber Prince.

* * *

**Bakaari Reeves, 17  
****District Eleven**

He was alone.

Bakaari leaned back against the wall, still not quite believing it. Jazz was gone. He'd caught sight of her from across the room just as the girl from Seven had slit her throat. For a moment, he'd considered rushing to her, anyway, even though it was clearly too late.

But then the lights had gone out.

So he had simply run, as fast as he could, out the nearest door – the green one. There would be time to mourn later. There would be time to miss her later. First, he had to find somewhere safe.

Safe, of course, was a relative term. There was nowhere in the arena that was truly safe. If Jazz could be killed, so could he. If Jazz was dead…

Dead. Not just gone. Dead. Tears clouded his vision as the word echoed in his mind. She was dead. He was alone.

But at least he was alive.

Because as bad as this was – as bad as it was to be on his own already in the arena – it could have been worse. _He_ could be the one who was dead now. Six cannons had fired already. It was only sheer luck that none of them had been his.

Six cannons. Thirty left. And he was one of them.

Slowly, Bakaari forced himself to keep moving. In the pitch black, he wasn't sure where he was going, but he knew he wanted to get as far away from the cornucopia as possible. As far away as possible from the tributes who had killed Jazz.

Suddenly, he heard a humming – soft and low. Something mechanical. For a moment, he froze. The noise was coming from somewhere off to his right.

Bakaari glanced around in the dark, fruitless though it was. He could go the other way. Or keep moving straight. But humming meant some sort of power. Maybe humming meant there would be lights that way. Maybe there would be a way out.

Slowly, carefully, he made his way towards the sound. As he got closer, he _could_ see a little bit better. The light was coming from what appeared to be a single train car. But there were no tracks. Instead, the car was attached to a cable that hung from the ceiling. It was standing perfectly still, door open.

Were they inviting him inside?

And, if so, was it an invitation he wanted to accept?

Of course, if they really wanted him inside, they could send mutts to chase him in. They could start to collapse the walls around him and force him inside. If they meant him some harm, they could simply kill him where he stood. But surely it was a little early for the Gamemakers to start interfering. Surely they didn't need to spice things up yet. Surely he hadn't done anything to earn that sort of retribution.

Perhaps it was simply random. A random stop. Maybe he could wait, and the car would leave. Move on to the next stop.

Bakaari inched closer, curious. Maybe it would lead out of the building – whatever sort of building it was. Maybe it could take him somewhere with supplies. Maybe it was worth trying…

Just then, the doors began to close. Bakaari couldn't think anymore; he stepped inside, and the doors slid shut. The warm, inviting light went out.

Then the car began to move.

Lights flashed on a small screen at the front of the car. Red. Then green. Then grey. Suddenly, the car stopped again, and the door opened. Bakaari hesitated only a moment before stepping out into another passageway. Immediately, the doors slid shut behind him, and, after a moment, the car sped away.

He was alone.

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

He wasn't alone.

Corvo ducked back into the shadows as the train car came to a stop. A boy stumbled out – dazed, disoriented. He didn't seem to be armed. He didn't seem to have any supplies.

Then again, Corvo didn't, either. He hadn't even thought about grabbing anything from the cornucopia. He had simply run. Tried to get as far away from his former allies as he could. Because that was better than the alternative: having to fight them. Anyone who allied with Fletcher or Niles now had a target on their backs. He had hoped Viktoria would follow him, but apparently she'd had other plans.

The boy from the train car took a few steps towards him. Corvo pressed his back against the wall, fading into the background. Just because the boy didn't seem to be armed didn't mean he wasn't dangerous.

Slowly, Corvo inched his way in the other direction, and, when he was far enough away, took off at a full sprint in the dark. The other boy wouldn't follow. He didn't seem like a hunter. He was just trying to get away from the others.

Just like him.

For a moment, Corvo considered turning back. Maybe they could help each other. Maybe he would make a better ally…

Corvo shook the thought from his head. For all he knew, the boy already _had _allies, and was looking for them. Or maybe his allies had tried to kill him. Maybe he'd tried to kill them.

Maybe the truth was that he was simply better off on his own.

Corvo slowed as the passageway began to narrow. He ran a hand along the left wall, and, after a few paces, another hallway branched off. Corvo turned to follow it. Soon, the hallway widened into a large room, and Corvo nearly tripped over something. Cautiously, he knelt down. It felt like some sort of box. A large, cardboard box.

Carefully, he reached inside. His hand closed around some sort of thin cylinder, perhaps eight or ten inches long. He pulled it out of the box. A flashlight. Could he risk turning it on?

For a moment, he hesitated. There might be other tributes in the area. Tributes who would be drawn to the light. But there might not be. He might be alone. He might be able to get a good look at where he was. And wasn't that worth the risk?

He flicked the flashlight on. The light was dim, but it was enough. Enough to see that the room he was in was full of boxes. Boxes on shelves, boxes on the floor, boxes piled on top of each other. Some sort of storage room, maybe. Corvo nearly laughed out loud. This was as good as the cornucopia, and it was all his.

All his.

Corvo's hands were shaking as he shone the light into a few of the boxes. There was rope. Bandages. Food. He couldn't see any weapons, but he could worry about that later. He had everything he needed.

So what was the catch?

Corvo shone the light around the room. The Gamemakers wouldn't just leave all this stuff here, would they? Why hadn't it been at the cornucopia? Why was it here, on the opposite side of the arena, just waiting for a lucky tribute to stumble in and find it?

Why was it his?

* * *

**Shilo Chateau, 15  
****District Eight**

"He killed her."

Shilo stumbled forward in the dark, trying to keep up with Eigen, who seemed to be running at a full sprint despite the darkness. At last, annoyed, he slowed down enough to allow her to catch up. "What's the matter with you? We have to get out of here!"

"He killed her. Mirami. She's dead."

Eigen nodded. "Yeah. And you'll join her soon if we don't get out of here. Who knows which other tributes are heading this way."

"He killed her, and we didn't do anything. We just stood there. We ran."

"Exactly. We ran. We're alive. Now, if you want to go back and join her, you're welcome to. Me? I'm going to keep going. Are you coming with me?"

Shilo swallowed hard. "Of course I am. I just—"

"There'll be time for that later," Eigen insisted. "We can't stop to think now. Not yet. We have to keep moving."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do we have to keep moving? What's the point? It doesn't matter how fast we run. They'll find us eventually. They'll find us, and they'll kill us, just like they did to Mirami. We can't outrun them forever. We can't. We can't—" She sank to the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Shut up!" Eigen growled. "If you want to stay here and die, fine." With that, he turned and ran off in the dark.

"Eigen!" Shilo called. "Wait!" She got to her feet as quickly as she could, but Eigen was already gone. Already running. "Wait!" she called, running after him. But it was too late. He was faster. He didn't want her anymore.

She was alone.

Shilo wiped the tears from her eyes. Maybe it was better this way. The only reason they had joined up in the first place was because she and Mirami had thought they would need one more person in order to take on Fletcher and Niles. But Mirami was dead. And she had run. She had abandoned her ally.

And she hadn't even thought twice.

Now Eigen had done the same thing. He had left her. Maybe she deserved it. Maybe they both did. Maybe they all did.

Maybe, in the end, everyone in the arena deserved to be alone.

Shilo staggered forward, trying to run. Or at least to walk. But she was so tired. They had run so far already. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to rest.

But not here. Not out in the open. She stumbled forward a few paces until she found a hallway leading off to the right. That was good enough. That would keep her safe for now.

But it wouldn't last forever.

* * *

**Saoirse Terris, 16  
****District Seven**

"I killed her."

Saoirse stumbled forward in the dark, trying to keep up with Jason, who, despite the beating he had taken from Jazz, insisted that they keep going. Keep moving. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, because that was all they could do now. Run. Get as far away as possible.

Far away from the girl she had killed.

"I didn't mean to," Saoirse insisted, choking back tears, not sure if she was trying to convince Jason or herself. "I didn't want to. Maybe if I had just yelled at her, told her to get off, maybe once she saw I had a weapon, she would have—"

Jason turned around, and Saoirse felt his hands grip her shoulders. "Snap out of it, Saoirse! She wouldn't have let go. She wouldn't have given up. How could she? She was after my supplies – supplies we both needed to survive. She wouldn't have just run away. She would have killed me. She was _about _to kill me. You saved my life. Stop apologizing for it."

"But she's dead."

"Yeah. She is. And you know what that means? One less tribute we'll have to kill later. One less person in the way of going home. That's it, Saoirse. That's all she was. She was just in the way. She was just unlucky."

Saoirse nodded. Maybe he was right. But it all seemed so random. So arbitrary. Why was she still alive, when the other girl was dead? Why was she alive, when Viktoria was dead? What gave her the right to live, when they were already gone?

"Come on," Jason called, pulling her down a passageway that branched off from the main hall. "Let's see if we can find somewhere safe to rest for a while."

Saoirse followed him blindly down the passage, which finally opened up into a room that was slightly larger. A faint light came from the windows – enough to see by, but not much. Jason hurried over for a look, then took a few steps back. "Saoirse, I think you need to see this."

She didn't want to. She didn't want to see anything. She just wanted to sit down and rest. Sleep. Forget what she had done. What she'd had to do. But she followed him, anyway, to where he stood by the window, peering out into the night.

The night.

Surely it wasn't night already.

Or maybe it was. How long had they been running down that tunnel? She didn't even know what time it had been when they'd entered the arena. They'd given her some sort of injection on the hovercraft, and, when she'd woken up, she'd been in the launch room. How could she even know how long she'd been asleep?

For all she knew, it was the middle of the night already.

Then she heard Jason whisper, "The stars are moving."

Saoirse looked again. He was right. The stars were moving. Or the room was. Maybe the whole building was. Maybe it didn't matter which. Maybe it didn't matter where they were.

The two of them sank down by the window. "Let's see what's in this pack," Jason suggested. "Then we can get some rest."

Saoirse nodded. "All right. Let's hope you didn't risk your life for a bag of rope or something."

It wasn't a bag of rope. As Jason dumped the contents onto the floor, they could quickly see that it was mostly food. Some dried meat and fruit, some crackers, and a large, empty water bottle. Jason nodded, satisfied. "Not bad. At least we won't go hungry – not for a while, at least."

"No water," Saoirse noted. "We'll have to find some."

"True, but this isn't bad. We've got food. You've got a knife. We just need to find some water, and we're good to go."

"It won't be that easy."

Jason shook his head. "Of course not. But it could be a lot worse."

She couldn't exactly argue with that.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

"We can't be in space."

Blythe shook her head, staring out the window. "It just doesn't make sense. How could they have gotten us here? How did they build this place? It's huge. How are they going to send sponsor gifts? How are they going to collect the bodies? We can't _really _be in space. It's got to be a trick. An illusion."

Elaine shook her head. "They _did_ give us some sort of sedative on the hovercraft. Maybe we were asleep for the trip here."

"That might explain how _we_ got here, but not how _it _did," Blythe pointed out. "This place is huge. How could they get the whole thing into space?"

"Maybe in parts," Brennan suggested. "Maybe they put the whole thing together up here – sort of like a puzzle."

"That would take a long time," Elaine pointed out.

Brennan shrugged. "They may have been planning this arena for a long time. It's a Quarter Quell; they knew they had to do something special."

"I don't know about sponsor gifts, though," Elaine admitted. "Unless they had to send them ahead of time, and they're waiting here somewhere."

"Maybe there are some sort of planes that go between here and … Earth, I guess," Brennan ventured.

Elaine shrugged. "Besides, where else would we be?"

"I don't know," Blythe admitted. "Maybe underground somewhere. Or underwater. Or maybe we're just in a larger building, and we're seeing some sort of rotating projection."

"Sounds almost as complicated as sending us into space in the first place," Brennan pointed out.

"Yeah, but space is…" Blythe hesitated, searching for the right word. "Dangerous," she decided at last. "I mean, what if something goes wrong? What if the power fails for some reason, and we all go crashing down to Earth? Or what if something hits us, and breaks through the walls, and we all go flying out into space, and—" She stopped short. That was it. It wasn't that she didn't think they _could_ be in space. It was that she didn't _want_ to be in space. She didn't want to be that far away from her family, from her district, from anyone who could help her.

But that was stupid. No one was going to help her, anyway. No one except the three other people in this room. She turned to Grace, who still hadn't said anything. She was simply staring out the window, mesmerized by the view. "What do you think, Grace?" Blythe asked. "Do you think this is real?"

Grace finally tore her eyes away from the stars. "Maybe it doesn't matter."

Brennan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Grace shrugged. "What difference does it make whether or not we're actually in space? We're obviously meant to think we are, so we might as well behave as if we are. Not that it's going to make a whole lot of difference. Whether we're in space or underwater or underground, we're still not going outside. As long as we stay inside, we're safe … more or less."

Blythe nodded. She had a point. There wasn't really anything they could do about it either way. They would just have to trust that the Gamemakers wouldn't let them all vent into space or come crashing back down to Earth in flames. They had to have their victor, after all, so it wouldn't do to kill them _all_.

But that still wasn't a very comforting thought.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

The others were already impatient.

Lynher sat cross-legged on one of the beds in the room they had found. Beds, a table, a few chairs – it almost looked like people lived here. Almost looked like _they_ could live here.

But the others didn't want to stay.

Maybe the view was getting to them. Lynher glanced out the window again, at the stars in the distance, still rotating. Every so often, the Earth came into view, far beneath them. It was beautiful.

But it was making the others edgy.

"We can't just sit here forever," Daedem mumbled. "We have plenty of supplies. We have weapons. We should be out there _doing_ something."

Lynher was struggling to keep his mouth closed, but that sounded like the perfect argument for _not_ going out and doing something. They already had everything they needed. They had grabbed supplies from the cornucopia – enough food to last quite a while, as well as a hatchet, a dagger, and a knife. They had found three headlamps in one of the backpacks, which could provide them with light for a while. They had already tested the sink in the room, and, to Lynher's delight, found that it could, in fact, supply them with water. Maybe indefinitely.

And yet Daedem still wanted to _do _something.

Francis seemed oddly receptive. "And what do you suggest we do?"

Daedem fingered the hatchet, which he seemed to have claimed as his own. "We start acting like Careers. Sure, the others have the cornucopia, but how long do you think they can hold it? I only spotted three of them still alive. They'll have a hard time trying to keep a guard on it _and_ do some effective hunting. If we're suddenly more interesting to watch than the Careers, we'll have the upper hand."

"Shouldn't we wait a little while?" Lynher asked. "Rest a little bit? Haven't we earned it?"

Francis shook his head. "The others will be resting, too. Daedem's right; this is the perfect time to strike. It's dark, but we'll have light to hunt by. We're one of the biggest groups in the area. We can pick off a few of the other tributes, get a little practice before taking on some of the larger groups."

Picking them off. Taking them on. Francis seemed to be going out of his way to avoid acknowledging that he was talking about _killing_ other tributes. Lynher looked away. He had thought he was ready to kill. He certainly didn't want to die. And he was sure that, if he was attacked, he would fight back. He would be willing to kill someone who attacked him first.

But Daedem was talking about something different entirely. He wanted to make the first move. He wanted to be the one to attack.

Maybe it didn't make a difference, in the end, who struck first. Only one tribute was coming out of this alive, after all. And he wanted it to be him. So, eventually, he would have to be the one to strike first.

He just hadn't expected it to be so soon.

Lynher looked from Daedem to Francis. They seemed to be in agreement. If he didn't go along with them now, he wasn't sure what they would do. Would they let him stay here and watch the supplies? Would they drive him off? Or would they try to kill him themselves? He couldn't picture Francis coming after him, but Daedem … He wasn't so sure.

"All right," he said at last. "Let's go."

* * *

**Daedem Luthra, 18  
****District One**

He didn't want to kill.

Daedem glanced back at Francis and Lynher, fingering his hatchet. The two of them probably thought he was bloodthirsty. Eager to go out and kill the other tributes. But, if he was being honest, he wasn't particularly excited about killing. He didn't _want_ to go out and hunt for other tributes. But he wanted to do _something_. Anything. And, as long as they were doing something, they might as well do something productive.

And there wasn't really anything else that they could do – nothing useful, at least. They had supplies. They had food. Water. Weapons. They had no reason to go back to the cornucopia. No reason to go anywhere, really. They could probably sit around, holed up in their room, for a few days without being disturbed.

But the audience wouldn't find that interesting. Sooner or later, the Gamemakers would interfere. Sends some mutts after them, or drive some tributes their way. He wasn't any more eager to fight than the other two. But, if fighting was inevitable, he would rather do it on his own terms. He would rather choose his own targets.

So he said nothing as the three of them strapped on their headlamps and turned them on. Francis had been worried, at first, that the light might give away their position. But that was the idea. They didn't _need_ to hide. They didn't _need _to cower in the darkness. They didn't need to be the prey, hiding from the hunters.

Not when they were the hunters.

"Let's stay away from the cornucopia," Francis suggested. "I think the girl from Three ran this way. Maybe the younger boy from Two."

Daedem nodded. Francis was on the right track. If they could find one tribute – alone, maybe unarmed – that would be better. There were three of them, but they weren't fighters. They weren't killers. Not yet. If they could make one or two easy kills, they'd be more prepared later.

And he meant for there to be a 'later.'

The three of them headed out into the hallway. Daedem took the lead, hatchet in hand. Francis followed, holding the dagger. Lynher trailed reluctantly behind, knife tucked in his pocket.

Daedem hoped they looked more impressive than he felt.

For a long while – too long for his liking – they found no one. Nothing. Not a sign of another tribute. Daedem gripped his hatchet. Of course they wouldn't be in the main hallway. Only an idiot would stay there. "Start checking the smaller hallways," he called to the others.

But, even as he did, he heard footsteps. Running. Maybe someone had heard him and panicked. Daedem lunged towards the sound, and saw a girl running down the hall. From behind and in the dark, he couldn't tell who she was, but it didn't matter. A target was a target. She was too far ahead for him to catch, but maybe if he slowed her down…

Without thinking, he threw his hatchet. It was a clumsy throw, off-target and slow, but it did graze her leg. The girl, more startled than hurt, collapsed, screaming. Daedem hurried forward before she could get to her feet, snatched up his hatchet, and plunged it into her chest.

Only then did he see who it was.

"Henri," he whispered, shocked, as the cannon sounded.

More footsteps, coming from the same direction, interrupted his thoughts. Henri's ally, the girl from Nine, was making a run for it. Before he could do anything, she'd run right past Lynher, who didn't even make a move to stop her as she passed.

For a moment, Daedem simply stared, horrified, at the corpse in front of him. But, at last, he got to his feet. Pulled the hatchet from her chest. Turned back to his allies.

"Well, that's one."

* * *

**Jade Floren  
****District One Mentor**

"I'm sorry."

Jade looked up as Scarlet and Stellar sat down beside him. Jade shook his head, turning to Scarlet. "Don't be. Daedem did what he had to. I would have done the same thing. So would you."

Scarlet nodded. "I don't think he realized it was her."

Jade shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He would have done it, anyway. Oh, he might have hesitated, might have gone about it a little differently if he'd known she was nearby. But he still would have done it." He sighed. "Maybe it's better for Henri this way."

Scarlet raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"She never wanted to be here. She didn't want to die, of course, but, more than that, she didn't want to kill. She didn't want to become a monster. She didn't want to become … well, me."

"Any of us," Stellar pointed out. "We've all killed."

Jade nodded. "Exactly. And she didn't want to. So maybe it's better that she's gone … before she had to make that choice."

Scarlet nodded, but Jade could tell she didn't truly understand. She'd grown up in a District One that encouraged Careers, encouraged training, was beginning to glorify killing. She didn't realize that it hadn't always been that way. That there had been a time when most of the tributes were like Henri – hesitant, reluctant, unwilling to kill until they were forced to make a decision, until their lives were on the line.

"I killed my district partner, too," Scarlet said quietly.

Jade looked up, surprised. He remembered, of course. Ebony had been his tribute only two years ago; Scarlet had been Stellar's. The Games had come down to the two of them. The Florens had waited, breathless, to see which of their tributes would come out on top.

But Jade had never truly been surprised that it was Scarlet. Ebony had been competent, but Scarlet had been ruthless. Remorseless. He'd never heard her talk about her kills with anything other than pride.

Until now.

"I didn't even think about it," Scarlet admitted. "I mean, it was just the two of us. One of us was going to kill the other. If I hadn't, he would have. But, still … It's different. Killing someone from your own district. Almost as if you're letting your district down."

Jade shook his head. "In the outer districts, maybe. But District One understands. They knew Henri didn't really have a chance. They knew it at the reaping. They're not going to think any less of Daedem for killing her so easily. And they don't think any less of you for killing Ebony. They're just proud they can claim to have had the top two spots that year."

The top two. Top five. Top eight or ten. Meaningless numbers, really. Only one number mattered, in the end. Only one tribute made it home. The rest were dead. Dead now or dead later – it didn't really matter.

So maybe it was better this way.

* * *

"_The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up this station, and the nebula outside, that burn inside the stars themselves. We are starstuff. We are the Universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out. And, as we have both learned, sometimes the Universe requires a change of perspective."_


	30. All We Know

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the mentor poll if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

* * *

**Day One  
****All We Know**

* * *

**Mortimer Obsidian  
****District Two Mentor**

"Something's wrong."

Mortimer drummed his fingers on the table, still watching the clock. Beside him, Jade raised an eyebrow. "All right, I'll bite," he offered. "What's wrong with the clock?"

Mortimer shook his head. "It's night. Well into the night, in fact. But they still haven't collected any of the bodies. And they still haven't shown the faces of the tributes who've died. The tributes probably don't even know it's nighttime yet. How are they supposed to keep track of the time?"

Jade shrugged. "Maybe that's part of the twist – throw them off a bit, mess with their sense of time. Clever, really."

Mortimer nodded. "Clever and dangerous." Usually, the tributes rested at the same time – more or less. Sure, there were sometimes those who decided to take advantage of the dark, but they were generally a minority, because then they would have to rest at some point during the day, which could be dangerous. But, with no way to tell night from day, the tributes could very well be resting at completely different times, which could be detrimental for those who picked the wrong place to settle down.

Of course, that gave a huge advantage to the larger groups, who could afford to have someone on watch all the time. Adrian and Simone were perfectly content with Calissa at the cornucopia, and would probably set up shifts soon. Dewan, on the other hand…

Mortimer sighed. "What a lousy Quell," he decided. "First no volunteers, and now this?"

Jade chuckled a little. "There are some disadvantages to going by the book."

"By the book?"

Jade nodded. "Your whole system – it's very methodical. Careers form a strong pack, hunt down other tributes, and then turn on each other."

Mortimer nodded. "It worked well enough for me." That was an understatement, of course. His alliance had been responsible for practically every kill in the arena, and he had personally killed ten – the highest total for a single tribute in Hunger Games history.

"It worked for _you_," Jade agreed. "But it's not the only strategy that works, otherwise every victor would be a Career."

"Quite a few of us _are_," Mortimer pointed out. "And you should know. You practically _wrote _the book."

Jade smiled, clearly flattered. "True, but that book's been amended several times. Look at how far we've come. My year, I was the only volunteer. I had two allies, sure, but neither of them was what you would call a Career. They just happened to be two of the older, stronger tributes. Only fourteen years later, you had a full Career pack to work with. This year, despite having more tributes, the largest groups have only four members – and, of those, one split completely, one is down by one tribute, and the other two aren't likely to go around eliminating a dozen other tributes."

"What's your point?"

"This won't be the year someone breaks your record, Mortimer. This won't be a year of high kill counts. And this won't be a year for Careers, because, quite frankly, there _aren't_ any. Your normal strategy won't work here – especially for the tribute you chose."

"Don't remind me," Mortimer sighed. "I choose the one with the most training, and he ends up without any allies – none worth speaking of, anyway." Luke had turned on Dewan. Natasha had left him. He was alone.

"Tributes have won without allies," Jade pointed out. "Think about it. Who held that kill record before you?"

Mortimer nodded. "Ivy." No allies.

"And who won the year before you?"

"Sabine." Also no allies.

Jade clapped Mortimer on the back. "Now you're getting it. Maybe this is the year the book gets rewritten again."

Maybe it would be.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

Something was wrong.

Dewan rubbed his eyes as he paced the room, trying to stay awake. Just until nightfall, he had told himself. Just until they show the faces in the sky. Then he would let himself rest – maybe even sleep for a little while.

But that had been hours ago.

Finally, he started to stretch a little, but quickly decided that wasn't a good idea. His whole body ached. Adrenaline had gotten him away from the cornucopia quickly, but, now that the rush had worn off, he could feel every bruise, every cut, every aching muscle. He shook his head.

_This_ was why he had quit training.

At first, he had enjoyed it as much as anyone else. But, eventually, it just wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth coming home every day with new aches and pains, with sore muscles and headaches because the trainers had decided to push a little harder or paired him with someone who was stronger. It hadn't been worth it then.

But now, it was a lot better than the alternative.

Because, as sore and as tired as he was, he was alive. Which was more than he could say for Luke – as well as six of the others. Seven cannons. Seven tributes dead. And he was still alive.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Dewan quickly made his way to the door. The footsteps were distant, but they were growing louder. Coming towards him.

Dewan shrank back inside his room. Whoever it was, they didn't seem to be looking for him. They were running away from something – or some_one_. Did that mean he should go after them? Did that mean they were easy prey?

But what if that prey was already being hunted?

If he jumped out to attack now, he could find himself in the middle of a chase. There could be other tributes right on this one's tail. One he might be able to handle, but what if it was a group? He wasn't in any shape for an extended fight. He was tired. He didn't want to deal with this now.

Better to let this one go.

As the tribute passed by his room without a second thought, Dewan could tell it was a girl. One of the older girls. District Nine, maybe? Dewan waited. A minute. Maybe two. There didn't seem to be anyone chasing her. But it was too late for him to hope to catch up.

He had lost his chance.

Dewan shook his head. Someone else would find her. If she was on her own, it would be easy for one of the larger groups to pick her off.

Dewan clenched his fists as he realized people were probably thinking the same thing about him. He was alone. One ally had turned on him; the other had abandoned him. He was tired. Injured. Easy prey for anyone who happened to stumble across where he was hiding.

But he had one advantage. He had already killed. There was already blood on his hands. He was responsible for one of the seven cannons that had already sounded. Surely that would be enough to satisfy the audience for a while. Surely he had earned a little rest.

As if in response, a soft pinging sound filled the air. Dewan's heart leapt. He knew that sound. A parachute. Someone had decided to sponsor him, after all. But where was the sound coming from?

Hesitantly, he followed the sound out into the hallway, and the pinging grew louder. As he stepped into the hall, a panel opened in the ceiling, and a parachute drifted down in front of him. Dewan knelt eagerly and opened the small container.

Inside was a rock.

Nothing else. Just a small, smooth stone. In the faint light provided by the parachute, he could see that the rock was painted purple. A purple rock. "Really, Mortimer?" he muttered. The rock wasn't even big enough to use as a weapon – certainly not a better weapon than the knife he already had. What was he supposed to do with it?

Dewan sighed and tucked the rock in his pocket. Just then, he heard a humming. Then a rumbling. Some sort of shuttle – almost like a train car – pulled up right in front of him. Dewan raised an eyebrow. Was this part of the gift? Was he supposed to get inside?

What did he have to lose?

Dewan shrugged and stepped inside the car. Blue lights flashed. Blue. Colors. Different colors. Was that it? "Purple?" Dewan asked hesitantly.

Immediately, the doors slid shut.

* * *

**Radiance Allor, 17  
****District Nine**

She was dead.

Radiance wiped the tears from her eyes as she ran. Henri was dead. And no one would ever know. None of the other tributes would know how brave she had been.

It had all happened so fast. They had been hiding in one of the corridors when they'd heard footsteps, then seen three shapes, coming towards them fast. They'd ducked farther down the hallway, but then one of the boys had called to the others to start checking the smaller hallways. The boys would have found both of them eventually.

So Henri had made sure they only found one.

Surely she had known. There had never been any chance that she would get away. Not from three of them. But her own death – her sacrifice – had distracted the boys long enough for Radiance to run.

Henri had saved her.

Radiance ran faster. She wouldn't let it be for nothing. She had to get away. That's what Henri would have wanted.

_It doesn't matter what she would have wanted. She's dead._

At last, Radiance slowed down, then collapsed against a wall, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't even know where she was. She had simply run, not caring about the direction. She could be anywhere.

Then she heard voices.

Or, rather, one voice. High-pitched and breathy, cheerful, almost singing. "_Run, run, run, but you might find worse than what you left behind._"

Radiance leapt to her feet. A light – faint and glowing blue – came from a door nearby. A door she had run out of. She was back at the cornucopia. Or near enough. She had to get away.

But someone was on top of her before she could run. Radiance opened her mouth to scream, but the other girl quickly covered it with her hand. Radiance bit down as hard as she could, but the girl only giggled and wrapped her other hand around Radiance's throat. Radiance crumpled to the floor, kicking, thrashing, gasping for breath.

Then another girl appeared.

The second one was almost smiling. "Nice work, Ryzer," she whispered. "Hold her down. And keep it quiet. We don't want the Careers to hear." The first girl nodded and handed handed her a knife.

But, even as she did, she let go of Radiance's throat for a moment. "Help!" Radiance screamed, her voice hoarse. "Help! Please!"

No one would come, of course. The only person who would want to help her was already dead. But if these two didn't want her to make noise, then making noise was probably her best chance. Maybe they would leave her and run.

"Damn it," the second girl muttered, and quickly drove the knife into Radiance's throat. Pain shot through Radiance's neck, and she tried to scream, but all that came out was an odd gurgling sound. The two girls took off, and, only a few seconds later, three tributes wearing night-vision glasses rushed through the doorway.

"Too late!" one of them grumbled. "We don't know which way they went."

"Look!" one of the others pointed at Radiance. "No cannon. She's not dead yet."

Radiance closed her eyes. No, she wasn't dead. But she would be soon. Maybe these three would even finish her off. "No, don't kill her," a girl's voice said. "She's dead, anyway. But she can tell us who else is here." Radiance felt a hand around hers. "Hey. Hey, open your eyes. Don't die on us yet. Tell us who did this."

Radiance opened her eyes. Coughed. Sputtered. But, finally, she managed to speak. "Why … help you?"

The girl shrugged. "Why not? You're dying anyway. Why not help us get the tributes who did it? Who were they? Which way did they go?"

Why not?

"Ryzer," Radiance gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper. She didn't know the other girl's name. District Six, she was pretty sure. She'd seen them together during training. It took all her strength, but she managed to point down the hall. The direction the two girls had run.

The girl smiled a little. "Thank you."

* * *

**Calissa Hart, 18  
****District Four**

The girl's cannon sounded almost immediately.

Calissa glanced at Simone, who was still kneeling by the dead girl's body. "Good thinking. It's probably too late to go after them, but at least now we have some idea who's still in the area."

Simone nodded, standing at last. "With any luck, if we don't give chase now, they'll be back eventually, figure they got away with it. It's a good idea, staying close to the cornucopia. In fact, it's a wonder more people don't—" She was cut off by a clattering noise back inside the barroom.

"—have the same idea," Adrian finished with a chuckle. "Looks like someone else did."

They rushed back inside, weapons ready. "Guard the doors!" Calissa called. Adrian took one, while Simone hurried over to the other. "If they're still here, we'll find them!"

But, after several minutes of searching beneath tables, behind chairs, and on the other side of the counter, she found no one. A quick inspection of the supplies, however, revealed that some of the food had been taken. "Clever," Simone admitted. "But we'll get them next time."

Calissa shook her head. They could only afford so many next times. If they kept losing their prey, the audience would eventually decide they were incompetent. The Gamemakers would grow bored of them. They had to do something. They couldn't just sit here.

"We should go," Calissa insisted. "I've been telling you for hours, we should leave and start hunting down the other tributes. After this, we should definitely leave a guard, but we're not going to accomplish anything by sitting here and waiting for the tributes to come to us."

Simone shook her head. "Actually, I think this proves that we can. All we have to do is be ready next time. There are only three of us. It's only a matter of time before someone decides that they can try to sneak in here and get supplies. And next time, we'll be ready."

Adrian nodded. "I'm with Simone. Leaving one person as a guard means we could only send two people out to hunt. There are plenty of groups out there that are bigger than that."

"But none that are competent," Calissa pointed out. "The so-called Robber Prince and his allies? Two of them are there!" She gestured towards the corner where they had piled the dead bodies. "The pair from Twelve and their allies? They're not a threat. My district partners and their friends? They're a joke. Who is it that you're so afraid you're going to run into out there?"

Adrian glared. "I'm not afraid."

"Then prove it! Let's go! We can leave Simone, if you like, but we need to do _something_!"

Simone shook her head. "Stop it, both of you. Clearly, what we need to do is rest. You're on edge because we missed our chance at a few easy kills. I get that. But we'll be in a better position to decide things after we rest for a while and can calm down a little. It's still the first day. We can afford to wait a little while."

"How do you know?" Calissa asked. "How do you know it's still the first day?"

Simone hesitated for a moment, and Calissa knew the question had surprised her. The truth was, of course, that they _didn't _know. No hovercrafts had come to collect the bodies. There had been no faces in the sky. But there _was _no sky. Maybe they weren't going to come. And, without any sort of light, any sort of window to show them whether it was daylight outside, they had no way of measuring how much time had passed.

"It doesn't matter," Simone said at last. "If it _has_ been longer than we thought, all the more reason to rest for a little while. You can take the first watch, if you want to do something productive."

Calissa glared. "I think I will!"

Adrian nodded. "Fair enough. Wake us when you're willing to admit that you're tired and want someone to replace you."

Calissa slammed her fist against the counter as the two of them went to sleep. Useless. Useless, both of them. Maybe she should just kill them now, while they slept. At least that would be _something_.

But then she would be alone. And she couldn't guard the cornucopia and hunt tributes by herself. No. No, she needed them. She needed them alive.

At least a little longer.

* * *

**Natasha Kovacic, 16  
****District Three**

She would need to be more careful.

Natasha peeked out from her hiding place. The one place in the room that the others hadn't thought to check. The one place none of them had wanted to go near.

The pile of dead bodies.

Now she just needed time. She needed enough time to run out the nearest door – the blue one – without being seen. So she would wait. She would wait until the girl fell asleep.

It would take a while. The girl was on edge. Impatient. She wanted to _d__o _something. And, right now, Natasha knew exactly how she felt. She was a sitting duck here. If one of the others happened to wander over to check the dead bodies and noticed there were seven instead of six, she would be dead in an instant.

But, if she ran, she would be dead _now_.

So, as much as she hated it, she had to wait. She had to be patient. Eventually, the girl would fall asleep. Or turn her back long enough. Lower her guard long enough. Then Natasha could sneak out with the supplies she'd managed to steal.

It was worth it. Worth the risk. Once the three of them had run out the blue door after the noises in the hall, Natahsa had snuck in the other one. The food hadn't been hard to find. She'd meant to grab a weapon, as well, but, in the dark, she'd knocked over one of the spears, which had clattered to the floor, alerting the Careers. So she had run, her food already tucked safely in a bag on her back. She'd ducked under one of the dead bodies just as the others had entered, only a few yards away from her.

She'd cut it close, and she'd been lucky. But she couldn't count on that happening again. She would have to be more careful.

But first she had to get away.

Natasha shifted a little under the weight of the dead body on top of her. One of the girls – District Five, she was pretty sure. She hadn't had much of a chance to look at the others. Carefully, quietly, she turned a little, hoping for enough of a glimpse to tell her which of the competition was already gone.

Then she saw Luke's face.

Luke. He was dead. Had he and Dewan killed each other? Was the other boy somewhere in this pile?

He had to be. There was no way he could have killed Luke on his own. That was why he'd called out for her. As a team, they may have been able to take him down. But on his own? No, Luke had probably won the fight, then, distracted or injured, been finished off by one of the other tributes. Maybe one of the tributes in the room with her right now.

But what if Dewan _was _alive?

Somehow, that thought was even worse. Because if he was alive, he might blame her. He might blame her for abandoning him, for leaving him to fight Luke alone. If they ever found each other again, he might try to kill her.

So she would just have to make sure they didn't find each other.

Natasha clenched her fists. There was no point in feeling guilty. Dewan would have done the same thing if Luke had gone after her, instead. He would have run. He would never have put his life on the line to save her. Their alliance had never been one of trust. It had been one of convenience.

And it was no longer convenient.

Finally, the girl at the Cornucopia sat down. Slammed her fist against the floor. Natasha's body tensed. It was only a matter of time. The girl would probably fall asleep before being willing to wake the others and admit they had been right.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

"I don't think they're coming."

Ryzer giggled a little. Of course they weren't coming. If anyone else was coming, they would have found them already. And she and Cassandra would be dead.

But they weren't. They were alive. And the girl was dead. Whether she had died from the wound Cassandra had given her or whether the others had killed her, Ryzer didn't know. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it only mattered that she was dead.

Or maybe even that didn't matter.

Ryzer fingered her knife as the two of them slowed to a stop, breathing hard, leaning against the wall. Cassandra was wearing the night-vision glasses she had found, so she was leading. But Ryzer had her own advantage. She had switched her eye patch to her other eye. Her left eye was weak – injured when she was younger – but keeping an eye patch over it gave her excellent night vision in one eye. And she had her knife.

Part of her was surprised the Cassandra had given it back. It was a show of trust she hadn't really expected so soon. But why not? Cassandra had no reason to suspect that Ryzer might turn on her. And Ryzer had no reason to. They made a good team. The blood on her knife was testament to that.

Blood. Ryzer smiled a little. She was used to blood, of course. She had been catching her own food for almost a year now. She was used to blood. Used to killing.

But she was almost surprised that she didn't feel any different.

There had been no difference. No difference in the chase, the rush as she and Cassandra had taken down their prey. The fear in the girl's eyes had been the same primal panic she had seen in the eyes of mice, birds, cats – whatever she could catch. The girl had even made the same sound – the same gurgling noise – as the knife had entered her throat. The blood was the same – wet and warm and sticky.

Maybe there wasn't any difference.

Maybe they were all animals, in the end. Maybe there wasn't a difference between killing a rat and killing a person. Maybe, in the end, the rats were better – truer – because they didn't pretend to be something that they weren't. They didn't have any delusions about their own importance. They didn't foolishly believe that, for whatever reason, they had a right to survive.

Because none of them did. None of them had a right to survive. None of them deserved it. In the end, maybe they all deserved to die. One of them would live, but not because they were the strongest or the smartest or the most deserving. Simply because they were the luckiest.

Or maybe the unluckiest.

Ryzer giggled a little. Maybe they all had it backwards. Maybe she'd had it backwards all along. There wasn't one winner. There were thirty-five. Thirty-five tributes who never had to starve again, never had to feel pain again, never had to fight for their lives again. Maybe the punishment – the real punishment – wasn't that thirty-five of them had to die.

Maybe the real punishment was that one of them had to live.

One of them had to go back. One of them had to face their district and acknowledge what they'd done, while the rest of them could simply vanish into the shadows of their district's memories. Maybe it was better to die.

But not yet.

No, she would help the others first. Because that's what they were doing, in the end: helping the others die faster. Giving them relief. Sparing them from pain in the future. Yes. Yes, that was it. She would help them. All of them. She would give them – as many of them as she could – exactly what they deserved.

And then she would find it herself.

* * *

**Francis Cooper, 17  
****District Twelve**

He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it so well.

Francis watched, still a bit surprised, as Daedem simply sat down on the bed and started cleaning his hatchet. They'd taken a longer way back, scouring the hallways as they went, but hadn't found anyone else.

And maybe that was for the better, as far as Francis was concerned. He was shaken enough.

But Daedem wasn't. In fact, now that they were back in their own room, he seemed perfectly calm about the whole thing. As if the blood on his hatchet belonged to someone he hadn't known at all, rather than a girl he had just spent several days with.

Francis looked away. If they had come across Brennan and Blythe instead of Henri, would he have done the same thing? Would Lynher have done the same if they'd found Bakaari or Jazz? He was pretty sure the second answer was no.

He wished he was as certain about the first.

Henri's death had been brutal, yes, but at least it had been quick. It had been over in a few seconds. And maybe that was the best anyone could ask for in the Games – to be killed quickly. If it was him, he knew, he would rather have a quick death than a slow, painful one.

Of course, he would rather not die at all, but if he had to choose – for himself, for his allies, or for his district partners – a quick death seemed more merciful.

So maybe he would have done the same thing. Maybe he would have killed Brennan or Blythe as quickly as Daedem had killed Henri. They had to die eventually, after all. Maybe it was better to die quickly, to die sooner rather than late.

But would he have been able to do it?

Francis glanced over at Daedem, who had finished cleaning his hatchet and was now working on barricading the door. Lynher was helping him, trying his best to be useful, maybe hoping he wouldn't be the next one to end up with his blood on Daedem's blade.

Francis was hoping the same thing.

Daedem hadn't hesitated to kill his district partner. So why would he hesitate to kill any of them? Maybe it was only a matter of time before he turned on them, too. Maybe he would eventually realize that neither of them had done anything during the chase, that they had simply stood there and let the other girl get away.

"I'll take the first watch," Lynher offered. Maybe he was thinking the same thing Francis was – that it might be good not to fall asleep too easily, not to leave Daedem alone on guard, lest he decide that the most interesting thing to do would be to kill his own allies.

For his part, however, Daedem agreed easily. "All right, then. Wake me in … well, whenever you get tired, I guess, since we don't really have any way of telling time."

Lynher nodded. Daedem claimed one of the beds, and Francis settled down in the other, his dagger tucked beneath the pillow. But it would be a long time, he knew, before he could really hope to fall asleep.

Because, as unsure as he was about Daedem, he wasn't really sure he could trust Lynher, either. Not that he was really worried about Lynher killing him in his sleep. Lynher had been reluctant even to go hunting for others; Francis was pretty sure he wouldn't have it in him to kill an ally. But he wasn't entirely convinced that, once the two of them were asleep, Lynher wouldn't simply grab whatever supplies he could and take his chances on his own. His mentor had done the same thing, after all, only the year before. Maybe Lynher hoped the same strategy would work for him.

Francis kept his eyes open as long as he could. It wouldn't work. He wouldn't let Lynher leave. Not because he was particularly attached to the other boy, but because he certainly didn't want to be on his own with Daedem. So, as long as he could, he kept his eye on Lynher. If he tried to leave…

Then what? What could he do? Stop him? How? Kill him? That would defeat the purpose of not letting him go. At last, Francis closed his eyes. If Lynher truly wanted to leave, there was really nothing he could do to stop him, short of killing him.

And he wasn't ready for that.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

"We can't stay here forever."

Grace turned away from the window at last as Brennan's voice shook her from her own thoughts. "Not without supplies," Blythe agreed, "but, if we can find some, it's about as good a place as we're likely to find. There's only one way in, which means we'll know if anyone's coming."

"Also means there's only one way out," Elaine pointed out. "If anyone corners us in here, we're trapped. Nowhere to run."

Brennan shook his head. "Doesn't matter either way – at least not yet. If we don't find food and water soon, it won't matter whether this room is defensible or whether we have anywhere to run. Eventually, we'll have to leave and try to find some supplies."

"Where?" Blythe asked. "You think we should go back to the cornucopia?"

"I don't know," Brennan admitted. "Maybe. We made the right choice getting out of there quickly, but they can't leave it guarded all the time."

Elaine nodded. "And there are only four of them, assuming one of the larger groups is the one at the cornucopia. And assuming none of them have died. Four of them, four of us."

Brennan shook his head. "Let's not make the mistake of thinking we can take them on in a fair fight. But if we can sneak in there when there's only one of them, or if we can get there when the lights are off, then we have a better chance to run in, grab some supplies, and get out. We're going there to steal, not to take on the entire Career pack."

Elaine nodded. "But if there _is_ only one person there…"

"Then killing becomes an option, yes," Brennan agreed.

Grace looked away. Chances were, he was only saying that for the cameras; Brennan didn't strike her as a killer. But, still, the thought made her uneasy. It was only the first day, and they were already thinking about killing.

Then again, that was what everyone had to do, in the end. Twenty-four people had left the arena alive, and only one – only her mentor – had done it without killing. Maybe it was better to start thinking about it now. Maybe that would make it easier later.

But she still had a feeling that nothing would make it easier.

"Maybe we should go back now," Elaine suggested. "They might be resting. We might be able to catch them off-guard."

Brennan shook his head. "Not yet. We need rest as much as they do. Let's get some sleep and think this through in the morning. Like you said, only one way in here, so it's a good place to rest. I'll take the first watch."

Grace shook her head. "No, I'll take it."

Brennan shrugged. "All yours." The other two lay down to sleep, but Brennan took a seat by Grace. "You like it here."

Grace's gaze strayed once again to the window. "It's … peaceful. It's quiet. Mysterious."

Brennan raised an eyebrow. "And that doesn't bother you – the mystery?"

Grace shook her head. "My father used to say … _I am both terrified and reassured to know that there are still wonders in the Universe, that we have not yet explained everything_. It's good to have mysteries sometimes. It reminds us that we don't know everything."

Brennan nodded. "That's why you don't mind not knowing – how they did it, whether or not we're actually in space, how this whole thing works."

Grace smiled a little. "Maybe it doesn't matter – as long as it actually works. And seeing as we haven't all flown out into space yet, I'd say it works."

Brennan chuckled a little. "It would seem so."

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12  
****District Eight**

"We could stay here forever."

Enzo leaned back against the fountain, smiling. This was certainly something he had never expected. He could almost be happy here. It almost didn't feel like he was in the arena at all.

Except for the cannons. They were a reminder. A constant reminder of why they were really here. What they were here to do.

Dennar nodded. "Well, not forever, but certainly for the night. We're probably not going to find anywhere better, and we should get some sleep."

Enzo nodded. That sounded perfectly fine to him. They hadn't seen any faces in the sky, but it seemed like it should be nighttime by now. Maybe there simply weren't going to be any faces. Maybe that was part of the twist – not telling them who was dead … and who was left.

Enzo stared up at the ceiling, high above their heads. He hoped Fletcher was alive. Mirami and Shilo had been planning to go after him – that much was obvious – but could they really have succeeded? No, somehow he doubted that.

But did that mean that Shilo was dead? Was there some way he could still hope that they were both alive?

No. No, one or the other was probably dead. Or both. He closed his eyes, hoping it wasn't both. They'd never been allies, but Fletcher had been kind to him – almost like an older brother. And Shilo … well, she'd been a bit cold, but only because she was trying to survive. Just like all of them. That was all any of them were doing. None of them had wanted this. None of them deserved any of it.

None of them deserved to die.

But eight of them had already. And more would follow. The number would continue to grow. And it was only a matter of time before that deadly number included some of the people in his little alliance.

And, chances were, it would eventually include him.

He had known that, of course, the moment he was reaped. He had tried to ignore it. Tried to deny it. But there was no way he stood a chance. Not really. One way or another, he was going to die.

But, if he was going to die, this wasn't a bad place for it. Everything in the garden was so alive. They didn't have anything like this in District Eight. For so many years, every time he'd seen the Games, he'd wondered what it would be like to be surrounded by so much life. It was almost enough to make him forget that he was truly surrounded by death.

Almost.

"Is this what it's like in District Nine?" he asked at last.

Dennar raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"All the plants. So much color, so much … life. Is this what you see every day?"

Dennar smiled a little. "Sort of, I suppose. The plants in Nine are a bit different, of course. Mostly grain. Wheat, corn, soy beans. And it's not colorful all the time. It's only green for a little while before it turns gold, and then brown. But … yes, I suppose. Even in the winter, the fields are still there, a reminder that, somewhere beneath the soil, things are still growing. Still alive."

Enzo smiled a little. "That must be nice."

Dennar nodded. "I never thought about it, really. It's just what's always there in District Nine. Just like you probably don't think much about the factories in District Eight. They're just … there."

"But they're not alive."

Dennar shrugged. "They're a different kind of alive. People, always bustling about. Hurrying from one place to another. It's different in Nine. It's slower. It's quieter."

Enzo nodded. "There's not much quiet in District Eight."

"Exactly. Everything's always moving and whirring. It's alive. Just like this building – always humming. That fountain, bubbling. Not alive like the plants are, but a different sort of life. And maybe just as good."

Enzo glanced over at the fountain. Dennar was right. It was bubbling, flowing, gurgling. He hadn't thought about it like that.

Dennar smiled a little. "Now get some rest. I'll take the first watch."

"Wake me when you get tired," Alasdair offered.

Dennar nodded. "I will."

Enzo closed his eyes and drifted off to the sound of the fountain.

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18  
****District Four**

They were in space.

Kinley stared out the window, still not quite believing her eyes. It had taken them a while to find a good place to settle down for the night, but this room was worth it, despite the odd green glow coming from the walls and the ceiling. It was a bit eerie, but at least it meant they could see a little.

And then there was the window.

A window that looked out into a sky full of stars – stars that kept moving. Turning.

But, of course, the stars weren't moving. At least not that quickly. So the only reasonable conclusion was that _they_ were the ones that were moving. Spinning. And, every so often amid the spinning, the Earth came into view.

Which meant they weren't on Earth.

The others seemed content to shrug it off and go back to trying to rest, but Kinley couldn't help staring. The view was so huge and vast and terrifying.

But, at the same time, it was wonderful.

It almost made it worth it. The Games, the killing, the terror – it was almost worth it, just for this view. Because no matter what happened over the next few days, no matter whether she survived this or not, she could say something that most people in Panem couldn't. She was in space! How many people could say that?

Well, twenty-eight at the moment.

Twenty-eight of them left. And four of them were tucked safely – or, at least, relatively safely – in this room. They didn't have any food. They didn't have any supplies or weapons. But the sink in the room – to her surprise – had running water, which could help them for a while.

But not forever.

Eventually, they would have to venture out again. Eventually, they would have to find food. "Maybe when the lights come back on," she suggested at last. "Maybe then it'll be safer to leave for a while, look for supplies."

Barclay nodded. "Good idea. And if Asteria's right about the way the lights work, it'll only take one more death."

Kinley looked away. One more death. That was their only way of measuring time, it seemed. One more person needed to die, and then the lights would come on. It was sick. But it was all they had.

And maybe it gave them a little bit of an advantage – the fact that they'd figured it out – but they still had no way of knowing _who _had died. No way of figuring out who was gone, who was left, who might be coming after them.

"I just wish we knew," Kinley said softly. "Who's died, that is."

"Niles or Mirami," Mercury said quietly.

Kinley turned, surprised. "How do you know?"

Mercury shook her head. "Mirami was planning to go after him. So either she killed him, he killed her, or both. I just wish—" She buried her face in her hands. "No," she decided. "No, I don't. I'd rather not know. I'd rather hope … I don't even know which one I'd hope for. Which one I'd want to be alive. Niles tried to kill Harakuise, but only because Harakuise was going to have his family killed. But Mirami was only doing what Harakuise suggested, only trying to get back at Niles for hurting her mentor. I don't know…"

Kinley sat down next to Mercury and wrapped her in a hug. She didn't say anything. There was nothing she could say that would make it better. Because whether it had happened already or whether it would happen later, both Niles and Mirami had to die, if she was going to win.

She didn't want to think about the rest. About the fact that Mercury, Asteria, and Barclay would also have to die. That all three of her allies would have to die, if she wanted to go home. She didn't want them to, of course. But there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing she could do to protect the girl she held in her arms. There wasn't even anything she could do to protect herself. Chances were, they were all dead – including her.

It was only a matter of time.

Kinley held Mercury a little tighter. "It's okay," she lied. "It'll be okay. We're safe here. For a while, at least. We can stay here. Rest up. Get some sleep. Things will seem better when the lights are on."

She only wished that were true.

* * *

**Eigen Vallant, 14  
****District Three**

He should have killed her when he'd had the chance.

Eigen clenched his fists as he turned down one hallway after another. Two cannons. Two cannons since he had left Shilo. For all he knew, one of them was hers. He could have killed her himself. Maybe he should have killed her.

But, instead, he had simply left her. Left her to be found by others. Left her to die alone. All because he hadn't had it in him to kill an ally who was crying her eyes out in front of him.

He had tried to tell himself he simply _couldn't _have killed her. He didn't have any weapons, after all, and she was nearly his size. But she'd had her guard down. He could have grabbed her throat, strangled her, found something sharp to stab her with or something hard to hit her over the head with.

But he hadn't.

Eigen shook his head. Next time, he would not be so kind. The next time he found her – the next time he found _anyone_ – he would kill.

Because he didn't have much of a choice now. His allies were gone. He had no supplies. He had to get the audience's attention, one way or the other. Killing Shilo would have done that, but he had missed his opportunity. He couldn't afford to miss the next one.

Suddenly, he saw something up ahead. Something was glowing – blue and faint, but definitely there. Eigen ducked low. Light could mean people. And people could either mean targets or threats. One person, he might be able to handle. But two or three? It was probably better to stay out of sight.

Slowly, carefully, he crept closer in the dark. At last, he could see that the blue light was coming from a fountain. The fountain stood in the middle of what appeared, in the faint light, to be a garden. Plants – shrubs, vines, even trees – grew in tightly-packed rows, surrounding the fountain.

Eigen swallowed hard. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Water meant there might be other tributes nearby, but maybe it was worth the risk. Maybe he could sneak in long enough to get a drink. He had nothing to carry water in, but even a small drink straight from the fountain would be enough to quench his thirst – at least for now. And now that he knew where there was water, he could come back.

Then he saw the tributes.

He could see three of them in the dark, right next to the fountain. Two of them appeared to be asleep, but the third had turned in his direction. Had he heard him? Could he see him? Eigen froze.

The boy at the fountain slowly stood up, and Eigen nearly burst out laughing when he saw who it was. Alasdair. His younger district partner and his weakling allies. He couldn't have asked for better targets.

Still, he would have to be careful. There were three of them, after all, and only one of him. He wished it were two, but he doubted Shilo would have been much help, anyway. She had been willing to go after Fletcher, but he suspected her younger district partner was still off limits in her mind, especially after Mirami's death. No, it was better that he was alone.

Not that he planned to take on all three of them at once. If he could pick off one, the other two would run; he was sure of it. Then the fountain would be his, and the audience would notice him. He just had to get one of them alone.

Eigen crouched lower as Alasdair woke his two allies, speaking in a low voice, probably sharing his suspicion that something was wrong. Eigen smiled a little. Something was wrong, all right. And they suspected something now. But he could afford to be patient. He could afford to wait. Sooner or later, they would let their guard down again.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**Miriam Valence  
****District Three Mentor**

"It never gets easier, does it."

Miriam looked up as Tania took a seat next to her. "Watching one of your tributes go after the other," Tania continued, gesturing towards the screen. "It's never easy. Might be the worst kind of waiting there is. Because the one who's probably going to come out on top – they're usually not the one you'd want to see win."

Beside her, Harakuise smirked. "You don't have to try to be discreet; we all know you're talking about me."

Tania shook her head. "Fine. Because the one who wins is usually the sneakier, the more ruthless, the one who's more willing to kill."

Harakuise shrugged. "Guilty on all charges. Because that's how you win the Games. Eigen has that figured out. Why do you think I suggested Mirami recruit him as an ally?"

"And how'd that work out for you?" Tania shot back.

"Not too well," Harakuise admitted. "But there's not a lot that _would_ have worked out well for Mirami. And it's worked pretty well for Eigen so far. He's rid himself of two more or less useless allies without any guilt to show for it, and, if he can take these three on, he's got access to a water source. Not bad for someone who high-tailed it out of the bloodbath without any supplies."

"Alasdair hasn't been doing so bad himself, either, for someone who high-tailed it out of the bloodbath without any supplies," Miriam shot back, a little more defensively than she'd intended. In fact, both Alasdair and Natasha had done pretty well so far. Only moments ago, Calissa had finally fallen asleep, and Natasha had snuck out of the barroom without any problems. At the moment, she was holed up comfortably in what appeared to be the station's brig, with enough food to last her quite a while. And Alasdair? He and his allies had found water. Food. They were about as well off as they could hope to be. "What makes you think he and his allies won't be able to take on Eigen?"

Harakuise shrugged. "Never said they couldn't. That's why I said _if_ he can take them on. There are three of them, after all – and only one of him. They've got the advantage in numbers. Now they just have to _not_ do something incredibly stupid, like—" He cut himself off as the three boys on the screen began to separate, maybe intending to search the garden. Harakuise shook his head, smirking a little.

"Like that."

* * *

"_All we know is that we will die. It is only a matter of how, when, and whether or not it is with honor."_


	31. Avalanche

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the mentor poll are up on the blog. New poll on my profile, this time asking which district trio is your favorite. Probably won't have much (if any) impact on the story because quite a few district trios have lost at least one member already, but I'm curious, anyway.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Avalanche**

* * *

**Crispin Zephyr  
****District Nine Mentor**

"Wonder whose brilliant idea that was."

Crispin glared up at Tobiah, irritated. Every year, it was the same thing. Tobiah would follow him around, half-drunk, making sarcastic comments and ominous predictions about District Nine's tributes. He had hoped this year would be different, since Tobiah had agreed to mentor Dennar. But Tobiah hadn't shut up since Radiance had died, and now, it seemed, he was going after Dennar. "Look, Tobiah, they're just kids."

"No, they _were _kids. Now they're tributes."

"Fine, but just because one of them does something that's not particularly bright—"

To his surprise, Tobiah burst out laughing. "Not particularly bright? It's brilliant! Well, maybe not brilliant, but at least reasonable. Certainly not as bad an idea as it looks from here, in any case."

Crispin raised an eyebrow. "Not sure I follow you."

Tobiah shook his head. "All right. Think about it from their perspective. _We_ know it's Eigen out there. We know he's alone and unarmed. But _they_ don't know that. For all they know, the entire Career pack is out there in the dark, waiting to come after them. So what do they do? Stay in one tight little group and get killed together? No. Look at what they're doing, Crispy. _Really _look."

Crispin looked. Dennar, Alasdair, and Enzo had split apart, but, once they'd reached a certain distance from each other, they'd stopped. Now they were circling the garden, keeping their backs to the fountain, still keeping the same distance from each other. "Close enough to help each other," Crispin realized. "But far enough to split up if things get nasty."

Tobiah nodded. "Exactly. They're not sure who's out there, so they're trying to account for every possibility. Maybe it's not the best strategy ever, but at least it's a strategy. At least they're thinking. Or at least one of them is."

"Do you think it'll work?" Crispin asked.

Tobiah shrugged. "Depends on who decides to move first."

Crispin nodded. For now, it was a standoff. But, eventually, either Eigen or Dennar and his allies would have to make a move.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

It was only a matter of time.

Simone shook her head as she watched Calissa and Adrian sleeping. She had woken a little while ago to find Calissa sleeping soundly, propped up against the bar counter, leaving the supplies completely unguarded. Clearly, Calissa didn't trust them enough to let one of them keep watch, instead. And if she didn't trust them to do that, it was only a matter of time before she turned on them.

Simone fingered the knife in her hands. Did that mean she should turn on Calissa first? She had already killed one ally, after all. And if she had done it once, she could do it again.

But that had been in the heat of the moment, in the midst of the bloodbath. It had been a ploy to gain the audience's attention. This was different.

But was it? Was it really? Calissa was as much of a threat as Hogan had been – possibly more so. If she'd been positioned near Calissa during the bloodbath, Simone would have targeted her, instead. What made killing her now any different?

Of course, if she killed Calissa now, there would only be two of them. It would be her and Adrian. But maybe that was better. Maybe it was better to have one ally she could trust than to have a group of allies who might turn on her at any second.

And she was fairly certain she could trust Adrian – at least for now. No trust in the Games was permanent, but Adrian hadn't done anything suspicious, anything that hinted that he might betray her. Calissa, on the other hand, had been furious that Simone and Adrian had voted against going out and hunting tributes. She was impatient. She was a loose cannon.

Simone gripped her knife. This was probably as good a chance as she would ever get. In a fair fight between the two of them, Calissa would win – every time. She had to do this now, or wait for another chance.

A chance she might not get.

Simone took a few steps closer to Calissa. What would Adrian do when he found out? Because there was no 'if' this time. She had played dumb during the bloodbath, pretended to have no idea what had happened to Hogan. And the others had bought it – or at least seemed to. But if she killed Calissa now, there would be no pretending. No passing it off as the work of another tribute. The cannon would almost certainly wake Adrian. She would have the knife in her hand. He wasn't an idiot.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he would thank her. Maybe he would be thinking the same thing – that they would be better off without an ally who wanted to go running around the arena looking for tributes instead of staying in relative safety and waiting for the fight to come to them.

Maybe.

But she couldn't count on that. She had to be ready to run, in case he took Calissa's death as a signal that the alliance was breaking entirely, that it was every man for himself. She hoped he was smarter than that. Without Calissa, it would take the two of them to hold the cornucopia. But, in the heat of the moment, would he realize that?

Simone gritted her teeth. _Stop thinking. Just do it._

_ Just get it over with._

Simone took a deep breath. Then she plunged the knife deep into Calissa's chest.

But, even as she did, Calissa's eyes flew open. A cry of pain was enough to tell Simone that the cut had been deep, but not fatal. Not yet, at least. There was enough life left in Calissa to tackle Simone. Simone gave a cry as Calissa yanked the knife from her own chest and brought it down hard. Simone lurched out of the way, but the knife still grazed her side.

Suddenly, Calissa gave a startled cry and collapsed on top of Simone, blood pouring from her head. A cannon sounded. The lights flickered on. Simone shoved Calissa's body away to see Adrian standing over them both, a blood-soaked club in his hand. Adrian glared.

"You'd better have a good explanation for why I just killed our ally."

* * *

**Adrian Mors, 18  
****District Two**

"She was trying to kill me."

Adrian nodded. That much had been obvious. "Did she have a reason?"

Simone hesitated. For a moment, she looked away, and Adrian knew she was deciding. Deciding whether or not to tell him the truth. Finally, she looked up at him again. "Because I was trying to kill her."

Adrian nodded again. He had guessed as much. "Why?"

"Because it was only a matter of time before she turned on us. You saw the way she was today. She wanted to charge out recklessly, without a plan, and go looking for tributes. And when we said no, she stayed awake too long out of spite, and ended up falling asleep while she was supposed to be guarding the supplies. Who knows what she would have done next? She was too unpredictable."

It was hard to argue with that. "And me?"

Simone hesitated. "What about you?"

"I'm not an idiot, Simone. Hogan's dead. Now Calissa. Am I next?"

"No."

"And why not? What makes me different? And don't pretend it's because we're district partners."

Simone shook her head. "It's not. But I trust you."

"Why?"

"Because you could have let Calissa kill me, then taken her out while she was distracted. But you didn't. You saved me. I won't forget that." Slowly, she got to her feet, reaching for a bandage and holding it against the light cut in her side. "And what about you? I'm not a match for you physically. If you don't think you can trust me, I should start running now, so … should I run?"

Adrian thought for a moment. At last, he shook his head. "No."

Simone looked half surprised and half relieved, but still not certain. "Why not?"

"Because you didn't lie to me."

Simone shook her head. "It was pretty obvious what happened."

"True, but you could have tried. You could have claimed she attacked you for no reason, that you tried to reason with her, that she was threatening to kill me. You could have made up all sorts of things. But you didn't. You told the truth. I won't forget that." He sat down, leaning back against the bar counter, and she did the same. "So, just the two of us, then."

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe Simone was right. Calissa had seemed a bit unstable, and Hogan … well, Adrian had never really been sure about him, anyway. They were both uncertainties. Variables. Maybe it was better that they were gone.

Simone nodded. "Just the two of us. I'm sorry. I should have told you I was planning to—"

Adrian shook his head. "It's done. No point in worrying about it now. What we _do_ need to worry about is how we're going to hold the cornucopia with just the two of us."

Simone smiled a little. "I have a few ideas about that."

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

"Eigen!"

Alasdair stared for a moment, shocked, as the lights came on, revealing his district partner standing in what used to be the shadows of the garden. In that moment, Eigen pounced, tackling Alasdair. Alasdair gasped in pain as his head struck the floor with a crack, the air leaving his lungs as Eigen's fist landed a blow on his chest. "Stop struggling," Eigen hissed. "If you pretend I killed you, they'll run off, and we'll have this place all to ourselves."

What?

Eigen didn't mean to kill him?

Alasdair wriggled a little beneath his district partner's grip, trying to think straight. If he was telling the truth, was it better if he played along? If he didn't, would Eigen kill him? Was he bluffing, anyway? But what would be the point of that? He had to make a choice.

Alasdair looked up, and, for a moment, his eyes met Eigen's. To his surprise, the older boy looked afraid. Almost terrified. Maybe he really _didn't_ want to kill him. Maybe he didn't want to kill _anyone. _Maybe he simply didn't want to be alone.

He stopped struggling.

Alasdair closed his eyes, leaving the left one open just enough to see what was going on. Dennar and Enzo stood maybe twenty feet away, staring, bewildered. They had assumed they would be able to reach him in time. That had been Dennar's plan – wait until one of them was attacked, and then strike before the unlucky person could be seriously hurt. Apparently, they had badly miscalculated what a safe distance would be.

Eigen gave him another punch for good measure, but then stood up, gloating, over what he apparently hoped the others would think was Alasdair's lifeless body. "Who's next?" he asked, daring them to charge. Hoping they would run, instead.

But they didn't run.

Dennar and Enzo charged together, calling his name. Whether they hoped they would be in time to save him or were just hoping to avenge him, Alasdair couldn't tell, but Eigen took a step back. "Run," Alasdair whispered, hoping his district partner would listen.

He didn't.

Dennar reached Eigen first. Eigen sidestepped the boy's blow and landed one on Dennar's cheek, but, in that moment, Enzo dove, wrapping his arms around Eigen's legs, tripping him. Before Alasdair realized what was going on, Dennar was on top of Eigen, with something in his hands. A rock from the fountain.

"Wait!" Alasdair called, but it was too late. The rock came down. Eigen cried out in pain, but Dennar struck again. And again.

After the fourth blow, the cannon sounded.

Alasdair sat up, gasping, coughing. "Why? What did you do that for?"

Dennar turned, shocked. "You're alive!"

"Of course I'm alive!"

"He was going to kill you!"

"He wasn't going to kill me!" Alasdair crawled over to where Eigen lay, blood pouring form the wound on his head. "He wasn't going to kill me. He just wanted you to run. He wanted you to run – that's all. He wasn't going to kill me. But you killed him. He wasn't going to—"

"Easy, Alasdair," Dennar coaxed, putting a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. But the hand was covered in blood.

Alasdair pulled away. "Don't touch me! You killed him! You killed him. He wasn't going to kill me." He shook his head, tears falling from his eyes.

"He wasn't going to kill me."

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

What if Alasdair was right?

Dennar stared, wordless, at the body in front of him. He hadn't even thought. He had assumed – he and Enzo both had – that Alasdair was dead. That Eigen had killed him. Or was about to. They had thought they were saving him – or, at the very least, avenging him.

Had they been wrong?

Dennar glanced over at Alasdair, who had retreated to a seat by the fountain, facing away from them, his arms wrapped around his knees, which were tucked to his chest. He was still talking. Rambling. Hysterical. He didn't know what he was saying.

Of course Eigen would have killed him.

Which meant they had saved him.

Dennar shook his head, still not quite believing what he had done. Still expecting Eigen to get up and run off. Still expecting to wake up and find he had dozed off while keeping watch, or that Alasdair had never woken them.

But it was real.

The body in front of him was real. The rock, lying beside the body, covered in blood – that was real, too. And the blood on his hands – warm and wet and sticky … Was that real?

As if in a dream, Dennar got up and staggered over to the fountain. He had to get rid of it. Had to wash it off. Maybe then he could wake up. Maybe then it wouldn't be real. He plunged his hands into the water.

But it didn't help. As he watched, the water grew red. Red with blood. Blood he had shed. Blood he was responsible for.

But he hadn't meant to. He hadn't meant to kill him.

Had he?

No. No, of course he hadn't meant to. It had been an accident. A miscalculation. He had meant to stop. He had only meant to hurt Eigen – just enough to get him to run away. He had never meant to _kill _him.

He had never meant to kill anyone.

Dennar scrubbed his hands harder. The blood had to come off. It had to. But there was so much. So much blood.

Who would have thought the boy could have so much blood in him?

"Dennar?"

Dennar looked up. Enzo was standing next to him, frowning, looking concerned. Dennar smiled a little. It was almost funny. Why be concerned for him? He wasn't the one lying dead in the grass. He wasn't the one with four bloody gashes on his head. He wasn't the one who would never wake again.

So why worry about him?

Of course, why worry about the dead? Why worry about the ones who were already gone? The ten of them who had already fallen – their troubles were over. They didn't have to worry about running for their lives, about fighting, about pain, about guilt, about death. It was already over.

So why worry about them?

But if he shouldn't worry about the dead, and he shouldn't worry about the living, what was there to worry about?

"Nothing," Dennar mumbled. "There's nothing."

Enzo sat down next to him. "There's nothing … what?"

"Nothing to worry about," Dennar smiled hazily. "I just wish…"

"Wish what?"

"I just wish I could get the blood off."

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12  
****District Eight**

The blood was already gone.

Enzo looked down at Dennar's hands. The blood was gone. Had probably been gone for a while. But that didn't stop Dennar from returning to rubbing his hands together furiously in the fountain water, water now tinged a light red. He was still muttering – muttering something about there being nothing to worry about. Alasdair sat beside him, rocking gently back and forth, still insisting that Eigen wouldn't have killed him. That they hadn't needed to kill him.

Which was pointless, of course. Of course Eigen would have killed them. Or, at best, he would have succeeded in driving them off. And then what? As far as they knew, this was the only source of water. The only place to find food. They would have had to return eventually, and Eigen would never have left without a fight.

So he would have had to die eventually.

Enzo shook his head, staring at the pair of them. He had tried to tell Alasdair exactly that – that the couldn't have done anything else – but Alasdair had seemed not to hear him. Dennar, as well, didn't really seem to have heard a word Enzo had said. Both were in shock, perhaps. He could only hope they would snap out of it.

But what if they didn't?

What was he supposed to do?

Enzo sank down in the grass, staring up at the ceiling. The lights were still rather dim, but bright enough to see the garden properly now. It was large – larger than he'd originally assumed. A few paths led out of the garden and into the surrounding hallways. High above their heads, a thick wire or cable of some sort ran from one end to the other.

As for the garden itself, most of the plants seemed to be fruits and vegetables. A few of them he recognized – apples, oranges, tomatoes. But many of them were unfamiliar. Dennar would probably have a better idea of what was safe to eat.

But Dennar wasn't going to help him any time soon.

Shaking his head, Enzo reached up and picked a few apples. Those he was certain of – as long as the Gamemakers hadn't poisoned them or something. Which was a possibility, but they couldn't avoid eating forever. They had drunk their fill of water from the fountain during the night – if it was, indeed, night – but, eventually, they would have to eat.

So he picked as many of the apples as he could reach, then continued on to the oranges. Eventually, he ventured up into the branches of unfamiliar trees, throwing down whatever fruit he could find and gathering it into one big pile. They could sort it later. They could worry about what was safe later.

Right now, he just had to do _something_.

Because if he sat still, he would probably end up doing exactly what Alasdair and Dennar were doing – staring off into the distance and talking to himself. That was the trouble – they were thinking. They weren't doing. As long as he was doing something – something useful, something productive – he could avoid thinking about what they had just done. What he had helped Dennar do.

But he couldn't avoid it forever. The body in the garden was a reminder – a reminder of what they had done.

What they'd had to do.

Because they hadn't had a choice – not really. The Gamemakers had seen to that when they'd turned on the lights. They'd _wanted _to start a fight, and they'd gotten one. If _someone _hadn't died, they wouldn't have left them alone. They would have sent in mutts or something, until they'd gotten their fill of blood.

As it was, hopefully they could rest for a while.

Enzo jumped down from a tree and made his way over to where Eigen's body still lay in the grass. It took all his strength, but he managed to drag it over to a corner of the garden. Out of sight. Maybe that would help the others. Maybe it would help him. Maybe if they didn't have to look at what they'd done, they could forget it for a while.

But they couldn't forget forever.

* * *

**Saoirse Terris, 16  
****District Seven**

She'd been awake, anyway.

Saoirse sat up slowly, blinking in the dim light that seemed blinding after the complete darkness. "How long has it been?"

Jason shrugged. "Don't know. No way to tell, really. But I suppose it's morning." They both flinched as a second cannon sounded. "Busy night."

Saoirse cocked an eyebrow. "Busy night? Two more people are dead, and that's all you can say – that it must have been a busy night?"

Jason leaned back against the wall and opened the pack again, handing her a few pieces of dried fruit. "Well … yeah. Think about it, Saoirse. Who do we know out there? Who do we _really_ know?"

"No one," Saoirse admitted. He had a point, of course. The only other tribute they had really known was Victoria. And she was already dead. The rest were just faces. Numbers – districts and ages. She hated thinking about them like that, but it did make it a little easier. It was easier to count cannons than to count lives that had ended.

"Ten so far," Jason remarked. "We're almost down to the number of tributes in a regular year."

Saoirse nodded. Jason was probably trying to be encouraging, but his words were only a reminder of how much farther they had to go, how much longer they would be in the arena. In a normal year, ten cannons would mean that there were only fourteen tributes left. They would be almost halfway.

But this year, ten was barely more than a quarter. Nearly three-quarters of the tributes remained.

Saoirse looked away. Maybe it was better like this. Better not to have it over with quickly. Because the more the number of tributes started to dwindle, the more likely it was that she or Jason would be next.

And, eventually, one of them would be.

No. No, she didn't want to think about that. Not yet. There were still twenty-six of them. Still twenty-four tributes who could die before Jason would have to. And, chances were, it wouldn't come down to that.

"You all right?" Jason asked.

No. No, she wasn't all right. Whether she made it out of the arena or not, she would never be all right again. She might as well accept that now. Maybe that would make it easier.

But she didn't want to upset him. He was in a good mood. And he had every reason to be. They had food. They had discovered during the night that the sink in the room could supply them with water. They were safe. They were alive. He had no reason to be upset.

And he didn't have any blood on his hands.

That was her burden, not his. Better not to share it with him. Better not to ruin the mood. Better to pretend.

"Of course I'm all right," she lied, taking a bite of the dried apple.

Jason eyed her curiously. He knew she was lying. But maybe he could also tell that she didn't want to talk about it. Or maybe _he_ didn't want to talk about it. Maybe it was better not to say anything, better to leave thoughts of the dead where they belonged.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

He already hated the sound of the cannon.

Corvo rolled over, trying to go back to sleep amid the lights that had come on after the first cannon. He knew he should be grateful. Grateful that there were two fewer tributes who could kill him. Grateful that the cannon hadn't been his.

But it had been someone's. Someone had died. And he couldn't do anything about it. Nothing but try to ignore it.

There had to be _something_ he could do.

A noise outside the door interrupted his thoughts. A low, rhythmic humming noise. Corvo sprang to his feet, grabbing a spare piece of piping he'd found in one of the boxes. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was the best he had. Corvo ducked behind one of the shelves as the door opened and a boy stepped hesitantly into the room.

Corvo tensed as he recognized the boy who had stumbled out of the train car only the day before. Corvo had run then. Had the boy been chasing him? Tracking him? Or had he simply been looking for somewhere to rest, and happened to stumble into the same room that Corvo had?

The last one seemed to be the case. The boy didn't appear to be looking for him – or for anything in particular, except a place to sit down and rest. He took a few cautious steps into the room, then peered into one of the boxes that Corvo had opened. A box of food and supplies. A grin broke out on the other boy's face.

That grin, however, quickly darkened as the boy put the pieces together. The box was already open. Which meant that someone was already there. The boy took a few steps back towards the door, snatching up a large piece of wood on the way, holding it out in front of him defensively.

Corvo held his breath. _Go. Just go, and I won't have to worry about whether or not to kill you._

Because he didn't want to. He had no reason to. The boy hadn't done anything to him. Hadn't attacked him. Hadn't even taken anything, despite the fact that there were more than enough supplies for the two of them tucked away in the boxes. He didn't want to attack. He didn't want to kill him.

Maybe he didn't have to.

Slowly, Corvo stepped out of his hiding place. The other boy nearly jumped, but still didn't attack. He was waiting. Waiting for Corvo to make the first move. Corvo clutched his piece of piping tightly, waiting for the same thing.

What if neither of them made the first move?

What if neither of them wanted to fight?

The boy kept his eyes on Corvo – eyes that were wide with fear. His hands were shaking. He was slowly inching back towards the door, maybe trying to decide whether he would have time to run.

At last, Corvo broke the silence. "I'm Corvo."

"What?"

"My name. Corvo. What's yours?"

That caught the other boy by surprise. "Bakaari."

"You're alone, aren't you."

Bakaari hesitated. But Corvo already knew the answer to the question. He had been alone when he'd gotten out of the train car. If there were allies waiting for him out in the hall, they would have done something by now. Reluctantly, Bakaari nodded. "Yes. You?"

Corvo nodded back. "Just me. Would—" He hesitated. Did he really want to ask? Maybe he should just let the boy walk away. But Bakaari was alone. Afraid. Just like him. "Would you like to join me?"

"Join you?"

"There's enough here for the both of us – and plenty to spare. Two of us could defend it better, if anyone else happens to find us. And I…" He set the piece of piping down. "My allies – they're gone. I … I could use the company."

Bakaari hesitated, considering. But the promise of food and protection was simply too much to refuse. He laid down his own weapon. "My ally – she's dead, too. I'm alone."

Corvo smiled a little. "Not anymore."

* * *

**Shilo Chanteau, 15  
****District Eight**

She'd never imagined the cannons being so loud.

Shilo tucked her knees to her chest, glancing frantically around the little room she'd settled down in for the night, trying to block out the sound. Maybe it was just the way the cannon echoed off the metal walls, but it sounded like it was close. Terribly close.

But it hadn't been hers.

Not yet.

Shilo shook her head. Chances were, the cannon hadn't even belonged to anyone she knew. How many people in the arena did she really know? Mirami was already dead. Eigen had abandoned her. Why should she care if the cannon might be his? And her district partners? Enzo and Fletcher? Who knew if they were still alive. Probably not, after that nonsense they'd pulled at the interviews. If they weren't dead already, they would be soon. So why worry herself about it?

Maybe it didn't matter whose cannon it was, as long as it wasn't hers.

Because, either way, sooner or later, there would be thirty-five cannons. And, in order for her to survive, one of those cannons had to be Eigen's. One had to be Enzo's. And one had to be Fletcher's. Maybe it didn't really matter which one – the first or the thirty-fifth or something in between.

Were they thinking the same thing about her?

Fletcher, at least, probably wouldn't be sorry to hear her cannon. If she hadn't revealed his identity during the interviews, he would have had no reason to mention it himself. But surely the Capitol already knew. Surely _he _knew that they knew. So would he really hold it against her?

Shilo shook the thought from her head. Why did it matter? Why should she care if he blamed her? She'd seen an angle, and she'd taken it. He would have done the same thing.

Probably.

No. No, she didn't need his forgiveness. Or Enzo's. He'd gotten himself into this mess, opening his big mouth and claiming to be something he wasn't. He had no one to blame but himself. Why should she care?

But she did.

She wished she could talk to them – any of them. Or if not them, then Eigen. Or _someone_. _Anyone_.

She'd never felt so alone.

Maybe that was it, Shilo realized at last, brushing a few of the tears from her eyes. She'd never been so alone before – not really. She'd always had someone. Her family. Her friends. Someone watching, paying attention.

But there _was _someone watching. All of Panem was watching.

Watching her fall apart.

Shilo closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

She wasn't even really sure what she was apologizing for. For betraying Fletcher? Leaving Mirami? Not being strong enough to keep up with Eigen? For being chosen for the Games in the first place? Maybe it didn't matter what she was apologizing for, or if she couldn't quite place it herself. Maybe it only mattered that she said it.

And maybe someone, somewhere, would forgive her.

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

He'd always thought the cannons would be louder.

Watching the Games in the past, Fletcher had always imagined the cannons would be louder in the arena. An earth-shattering boom, a reminder that their world was shattering around them. Someone had died, after all. The rest of the tributes deserved to know.

But the cannon had barely been enough to wake him. And the second had seemed even quieter – more distant, somehow. As if none of their lives really mattered.

Maybe they didn't. Because how many of the other tributes did he actually know? Two of his allies – Niles and Viktoria – were dead. Corvo was far away, if he was still alive, and wouldn't be coming back for him. Shilo and Enzo were still out there somewhere, assuming neither of the cannons had been theirs. But he didn't really know either of them that well, aside from the fact that they were from the same district.

And Shilo had told the Capitol his secret.

Fletcher shook his head. They'd already known. She'd seen a chance to take advantage of her situation, and she'd taken it. He would have done the same thing.

Maybe.

Or maybe not. Not if it meant betraying a friend. But they weren't friends. Not really. They'd spoken on the train, sure, but that didn't make them friends. He'd had no reason to expect any sort of loyalty from her. She'd given him no reason to trust her.

Then again, neither had Enzo. And Enzo had tried to take the blame for him, tried to take his place. Fletcher had done nothing to earn that sort of loyalty from his younger district partner, and yet Enzo had freely tried to help him.

Fletcher shook his head. He wished the little boy was here.

Or maybe not. Because if Enzo was here, he would only end up getting hurt by the retribution that Fletcher was certain the Capitol had planned for him. For now, they were probably satisfied with what he had done, but it was only a matter of time. He wouldn't have long before they made their move.

So maybe he should make his first.

And if he was going to do that, then the farther away Enzo was, the better. Still, he wished he had someone to talk to. Anyone.

He'd never been so alone. Back in the districts, he'd always had his friends. It had been years since he'd truly been on his own. It had never been his intention to be alone in the arena. All that work, finding the perfect allies, sorting through his options, assembling his ragtag team – all for nothing.

Maybe that sort of teamwork simply didn't work in the Games. Maybe it was better that he was alone. At least this way, he couldn't drag anyone else down with him.

Fletcher smiled a little. Yes. Yes, that was it. That was the way to think about it. Sure, he didn't have anyone to watch his back anymore, but he also didn't have to worry about watching anyone else's. He didn't have to worry about trying to protect anyone else, trying to keep them safe. He could take whatever risks he wanted, and the only life he would be risking was his own.

And he knew exactly where to start.

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14  
****District One**

"Go back to sleep."

Elaine rolled over a little and opened her eyes. Grace was still on watch. How long had they been asleep?

Grace shook her head. "It's only been an hour – at the most. It must have been later than we thought when we went to sleep. Get some more rest, if you can."

Brennan and Blythe rolled over obediently and went back to sleep, but Elaine rubbed her eyes. "Shouldn't we have a look around?"

Grace shrugged. "If you like. There doesn't seem to be much here that we couldn't see before." She shook her head. "In fact, I think I like the way it looked in the dark a bit better."

Elaine cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," Grace admitted. "It seemed bigger, somehow. More open. Now it's just a room with a bunch of computers. And the light ruins the view."

Elaine glanced outside. Grace was right. With the lights on, the stars outside seemed dimmer, more distant. But that was perfectly fine as far as she was concerned. "I'd rather be able to see where I am."

Grace smiled a little. "Would you really? Would you really want to see everything that's going on around you here? Or would you rather the shadows hide it a little longer?"

Elaine looked away. This was exactly the reason she'd been reluctant to ally with Grace in the first place. But, for better or worse, they were allies now. So she might as well make the best of it. "Yes," she nodded. "I'd rather see what's going on. I'd rather know. The more information we have, the better."

Grace nodded. "You've got a point, I suppose. Maybe we should take a look at the panels, then. It looks like a control room of some sort. I doubt the Gamemakers would give us access to controls that actually do anything, of course, but I wouldn't want to start fiddling with them."

Elaine nodded, stretching a little. Grace was probably right about that, at least. She remembered one arena when she was younger – a skyscraper – where the Gamemakers had electrified all the doors that would have led out of the building. It probably wouldn't take much to rig the control panels to deliver the same shock.

But she could still have a look.

Still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Elaine got up and wandered over to one of the panels. Most of them seemed to be maps of the heating, ventilation, power, and electric systems, but she finally found one that looked like a map of the whole station. Small, colored lights flickered erratically across the screen. "Grace!" she called. "Come take a look at this."

Grace hurried over, and quickly saw what Elaine had. "It's a map. This dome-shaped room – that must be us. So we're at one end of the station, just like we thought. Looks like it's divided into sections, and—" She stopped short.

"What?" Elaine asked.

But Grace was staring at the controls, mouthing something quietly, as if she was counting something. When she finished, she broke into a grin. "Wake the others."

"Why?"

"You wanted information. Now we've got it." She clapped Elaine on the back. "You were right – the more we know, the better."

"I don't understand."

Grace smiled a little. "I know. But you will."

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

"Looks like you were right."

Asteria opened her eyes sleepily. It seemed she had just managed to doze off. "Right about what?"

Kinley gestured upwards. "About the lights. They came on again after the ninth cannon."

The ninth cannon. She hadn't even heard it. Had she been sleeping that soundly? "How many were there?"

"Two," Barclay answered. "So we've got two more until the lights go off again."

Kinley nodded. "We should use that time. Try to figure out where we are. See if we can find any food or water. There's no telling how long we've got before two more cannons go off. We should try to make the most of it."

Asteria nodded agreeably. She didn't really feel up for venturing off in search of supplies, but part of that, she knew, was lack of food and water already setting in. Sitting around wouldn't make it any better; they needed to find supplies. The sooner, the better.

They started by exploring the room, which was sparse. Aside from the odd green lights, they found only a pair of gas masks. "Odd," Barclay remarked, trying one on. "Why would these be here?"

Mercury was glancing around, frantic, as if the room might fill with gas at any moment. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Maybe we should just take them and go – try to find somewhere else. I don't like it here."

Kinley nodded. "I agree. There doesn't seem to be much else here, aside from it being a fairly safe place to sleep. We should leave, try to find something better, and come back here as a last resort at night – or when the lights go off."

"All right," Barclay agreed. "Let's do that."

Asteria smiled a little. They made it look so easy – deciding things and agreeing on them instantly. No arguing, no debate about which way would be better. They simply left the room and followed Barclay off to the left. Why left? Why not? Asteria giggled a little. One way was probably as good as another, so there was no point in fighting about it.

It was nice not to hear people fighting.

Asteria couldn't help chuckling at the irony – that the arena could be more peaceful than things ever were at home. Unsurprisingly, the others didn't understand what was so funny. "What are you laughing at?" Mercury asked.

Asteria shook her head. "I was just thinking … If it weren't for the Games, I wouldn't mind living here. In a place like this."

Mercury shuddered. "I wouldn't want to. Trapped in a hunk of spinning metal, only a few walls between you and the darkness outside."

"Trapped or protected?" Asteria pointed out. "Maybe there's not really much difference. Maybe it's all in how you look at it. Either we're stuck … or we're safe. Safe from everything but what's in here with us."

Mercury nodded. "That's what we should be worried about – what's in here with us."

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

"Really?"

Dewan groaned a little as he rolled over. He had just fallen asleep, and now the lights were back on. Of course.

At least he could see the room a bit better now. The odd train car had dropped him off in what was apparently the "purple" section of the building, where he'd quickly found a room and settled down to rest.

Now he had the chance to appreciate his good fortune.

The room he was in appeared to be some sort of hospital. There were several beds – one of which he'd found – along with tubes, wires, needles, syringes, gloves, bandages, and an assortment of other medical supplies. Curious, but still very tired, Dewan sorted through a few shelves of supplies, and was relieved to find several bottles of sterilized water. It had a strange taste, but water was water, and Mortimer would hardly have sent him a gift that would lead him here if it wasn't safe.

Quite content with his good fortune, Dewan locked the door, shoved one of the beds in front of it, and settled down again to rest in one of the others. He would be safe for a while.

How long it was before he woke again, he wasn't sure, but he felt quite rested. Slowly, he got to his feet and paced the room a bit, stretching his arms and legs, which no longer felt quite so sore. He'd rested. He had water. What was the next step?

Either food or weapons. Dewan searched through a few more shelves, but there was no sign of food. Weapons, however, were another matter. He found several scalpels, needles, and some sort of saw, the blade about a foot long, with a sharp, jagged edge. Dewan tucked several of the scalpels into a small pouch, which he slipped over his shoulder. The saw he could carry. If nothing else, it certainly looked impressive.

Rest. Water. Weapons. Now he just needed food.

And, for that, he needed a plan.

He didn't want to go back to the cornucopia. Not yet, at least. Whoever was there might still be resting. Waiting. Besides, there was no need to go back there.

Not when he had a better plan.

Dewan unblocked the door and headed out into the hall. The light was dimmer there, but still bright enough to see by. Quickly, he found his way back to the train car – right where he'd left it. To his delight, the door opened for him.

Now that there was light, he could see that one wall of the train car held a map – possibly a map of the building. It appeared to be a cylinder, with six different sections. His section – the purple one – was farthest to the right on the map. Then came blue, red, green, grey, and, last of all, brown.

"All right," Dewan nodded. "Let's try this." He studied the map, deciding. Maybe best to go with the closest one. "Blue."

The train car whirred to life.

After only a moment, however, it came to a halt in a corridor, much like the one he had just left. Dewan glanced out the door, but didn't get out. "Red."

Again, the trip wasn't long, and, again, the train car stopped in a hallway. Dewan glanced around, then, a little more confidently, gave the next instruction. "Green."

This time, the trip was longer, and, when the car came to a halt, there wasn't a hallway at all. Dewan glanced out the door, grateful he hadn't decided to step out. There was a long drop – perhaps forty or fifty feet – to the ground below. And ground, indeed, it seemed to be – green and full of life. But he couldn't reach it from here, so he turned his attention back to the car. "Grey."

Another long trip, but, this time, the door opened once more into a hallway. A short trip to the brown section revealed the same thing. Dewan nodded a little. "Grey." The car whirred back in the opposite direction. Dewan smiled a little.

This would work perfectly.

* * *

**Talitha Cadence  
****District Two Mentor**

"Clever," Vester admitted grudgingly.

Talitha nodded. Dewan was still directing the shuttle from one section of the station to another. So far, he had traveled the length of the station three times. It was tedious work, but, sooner or later, it was bound to pay off. Sooner or later, a tribute would stumble along, curious, and realize that there was a pattern to where the shuttle ran. They would try to use it themselves.

Then Dewan could catch them off-guard.

Until then, it was a fairly safe place to rest. It would be difficult for anyone to sneak up on him. Talitha turned to Mortimer, curious. "Was this your plan when you sent him that stone?"

Mortimer shook his head. "Not at all, actually. I was just trying to find him a safe place to stay for the night, away from the larger groups of tributes. No one else was in the purple sector, so I figured it would be safe. Didn't even realize there was an infirmary there. And lurking about inside the shuttle, waiting for unlucky tributes to stumble in – that's all him." He shrugged. "How about you? Did you two set your tributes on an ally-killing streak, or did they do that themselves?"

Vester took a drink. "Some of both," he admitted. "I suggested it might be a good idea to take out one of her stronger allies in the bloodbath. Never meant for her to go after both of them, but she saw a chance, and she took it."

"Smart," Mortimer nodded. "And what they're doing now – clever."

Talitha glanced up at the screen, where Adrian and Simone were still in the process of propping the dead bodies up against the counters and tables in the room. It wasn't going to do much good as long as the lights were on, but, as soon as they were off, the bodies might be enough to fool some of the tributes into thinking the cornucopia was more well-guarded than it actually was.

And, yes, it was clever, but it wouldn't help them forever. It was only a matter of time before one of the other groups realized that there were only two tributes guarding the cornucopia. And what then? Talitha glanced at Vester, who simply shrugged. What would happen when that moment came was impossible to tell this far in advance. But that didn't stop her from worrying about it.

That was the worst part of mentoring, in the end. Worrying, and not being able to do anything about it. Not much, at least. Yes, there were sponsor gifts, but those could only do so much. In the end, it was up to the tributes. For the most part, mentoring was really a lot of waiting anxiously, punctuated by brief moments of rapt attention when a tribute was in immediate danger.

No wonder Vester had retired.

And yet here he was, back again. The Games still hadn't let go of him. And he was coping as well as could be hoped for, but it was clear that, at the moment, he would rather be back in District Two. Or anywhere else. Anywhere but here.

Then again, that was what most of them wanted. Sure, there were always a few who seemed to enjoy it. Mortimer. The District One crew. Harakuise. Mags, in her own way. But even they worried over their tributes. Even they grew more and more anxious as the Games wore on.

And it was only the second day.

* * *

"_The avalanche has already started. It is too late for the pebbles to vote."_


	32. Standing at a Crossroads

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in my district trio poll if you haven't already.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Standing at a Crossroads**

* * *

**Mags Pharos  
****District Four Mentor**

"It's happening again."

Mags slipped an arm around Misha's shoulders. She had never seen him so tense. Of course, they usually didn't watch the Games together. She was usually here, mentoring, while he was back in District Four. Most of the time, she suspected, he probably tried not to pay attention to the Games. Tried to block them out.

But this year, he couldn't.

Misha drummed his fingers on the table. "It always starts like this. One. By one. By one. She's smart, you know – taking them out one at a time. Hogan. Calissa. The others will be next – you just watch. Once she finishes off her allies, she'll go after our tributes. Barclay and Kinley."

Mags didn't argue. There was no reason, of course, to believe that Simone would choose Barclay and Kinley as her next targets. They certainly weren't nearby. They weren't planning to attack the cornucopia. And Simone and Adrian had shown no signs of wanting to leave it.

But that wouldn't matter to Misha. He was afraid for Barclay and Kinley's lives. She had to keep reminding herself that it was his first time mentoring. And, if she and Naomi had their way, it would be his only time. Misha still hadn't recovered from his own Games. For the Capitol to expect him to mentor another tribute so soon was cruel.

Then again, she'd mentored the year after her own Games. So had Naomi. They hadn't had a choice. Prepared or not, recovered or not, their tributes had needed them. Most of the other mentors had been the same – thrust into mentoring without any real preparation or any idea what to expect. And for six years, she'd mentored alone. Why was it unfair to expect the same from Misha?

And yet it was.

No one left the Games unchanged, but, looking around at her fellow victors, it was undeniable that some were more damaged than others. Some had recovered faster, better. Some had even left the Games stronger than when they had entered. And a few of them had left the Games better than they had been.

But not Misha.

She could still see him the way he was three years ago, before the Games. Eager, excited, full of laughter. The other Careers hadn't fully taken him seriously, but a seven in training was enough to convince them that, yes, he would be useful for a while. And once in the Games, he was a much-needed source of humor and light-heartedness.

Until the mysterious killings began.

A week into the Games, only nine tributes remained – six of them the Career pack. But, that night, a cannon woke them, and they discovered that six had become five. The next night, it was four.

Two cannons that day brought the total number of tributes down to five, and the Careers began to suspect each other. Not knowing which of his allies to trust, but knowing none of them suspected him, Misha poisoned the food, rendering his allies helpless but alive. Only after he propped them up against the cornucopia as bait did they realize that the killer had been the other remaining tribute – the boy from Twelve. Misha made short work of him, then finished his allies. One. By one. By one.

And now he suspected Simone was doing the same thing.

"That is, if they don't get to each other first," Misha continued. "Oh, they look happy now – on the hunt for supplies, following the leader, one big, happy family. But what happens when that big, happy family can't find any food? What happens when they can't find any water? What happens when they need someone to blame, when one of them decides they might do better if there were only three – or two – or one? What happens then? I'll tell you what. Boom. Boom. Boom!"

Misha's voice was louder now – frantic, desperate. Mags glanced around at the other mentors. A few of them shot her sympathetic looks. But it was Crispin who came over and joined her, wrapping an arm around Misha's shoulders.

"Well, we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen."

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

"I think we're going in circles."

Mercury glanced up at Kinley. "How can you tell?" The hallways all looked the same to her. And they had taken so many turns, she no longer had any idea which direction they had come from. But did that mean they were going in circles?

Kinley shook her head. "Listen." They all stopped. "Do you hear that?"

Mercury listened. And she did hear something – something faint, in the distance, off to the right. "We've passed that sound before," Kinley explained. "It's like … well, it's almost like the humming of a boat. Some sort of engine."

Mercury nodded. "That makes sense. If we really are in space, this thing's got to have its own power source of some kind. Maybe we're near it."

"And if we are," Kinley finished, "we can use that to give us a sense of direction. A lighthouse of sorts."

"Let's find it, then," Barclay nodded.

"This way," Kinley agreed, and took the lead. As they continued on, the walls began to change. The odd green glow gave way to a plain, solid grey. The humming grew louder and louder. At last, they came to a large, metal door with a round wheel in the center.

"Behind there, maybe?" Kinley asked.

Barclay shrugged. "Let's find out." He gave the wheel a turn, and the door swung open.

And something jumped out.

It was a mutt of some sort, but all Mercury saw at first was a mass of tentacles. One of them swung out towards them, striking Barclay in the face, then latching onto his arm. Asteria gave a cry and started to run, but another tentacle wrapped around her arm. Another circled around Mercury's leg, and she could feel some sort of teeth digging into her skin, and then a terrible suction, as if the creature was sucking her blood.

Mercury tried to run, to pull away, but the creature wouldn't let go. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the floor, clawing at the wall, trying to get away.

Then she heard a crunch.

The creature's grip loosened, and Mercury turned around to see Kinley, a piece of piping in her hand. Barclay held a second pipe, and, despite one arm being trapped by the creature, still managed to give it a solid whack, sending some sort of green goo spewing from the mutt's head. Another blow from Kinley sent it crumpling to the floor. Mercury scrambled to her feet. "What _was _that thing?"

Kinley collapsed onto the floor, breathing hard, as the rest of them untangled themselves from the creature's grip. Suddenly, as if in answer, a panel slid away from the ceiling above them and a pair of parachutes came floating down. Kinley stared for a moment, then smiled, understanding.

"It was a test."

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

He'd always hated tests, but this was ridiculous.

"A test?" Barclay asked, confused. "You mean our mentors _asked_ them to send a vicious octopus mutt after us?"

Kinley shook her head, still holding back laughter. "No. No, but they probably realized the Gamemakers would send something after us sooner or later. So they figured they could use it as a way to convince sponsors that we're worth sponsoring." She gave one of the parachutes a little shake. "And we passed."

Barclay eyed the parachutes hesitantly. "So they're both for us?"

"One for you and one for me, I think," Kinley nodded. "Look." She pointed to one of the packages, which was labeled simply "B." The other was labeled "K." Kinley handed him the B one, the larger of the two, then opened hers. Inside was a knife – small and plain, but still quite sharp. Enough to do what it was meant for. Kinley tucked it into one of her pockets. "What's yours?"

Barclay hesitated. He hadn't really thought about what sort of weapon he would want. But it would probably be better to have something besides a piece of piping. Reluctantly, he tore away the packaging.

Inside was a plate.

A small, wooden plate.

Barclay stared. What was he supposed to do with that? If Misha and Mags meant for him to use it as a weapon – maybe to hit someone over the head with – the piece of piping was much better. And if they didn't, a plate wasn't really going to do them much good without anything to eat off of it.

Then he realized Asteria was giggling.

"It's not funny!" Barclay insisted. "How would you feel if your mentor sent you a dinner plate instead of something useful?

Asteria shook her head. "It _is_ useful."

"How?" Barclay demanded. "Now, if he'd sent us something to put _on _the plate—"

"He didn't have to," Asteria snickered. "We already have something."

"What?"

"You don't see it – of course you don't. That was the point of the gift. It was a message. A message to use what we already have."

Mercury's face lit up. "I see."

Barclay shook his head. "See what? All we've got is a knife, a plate, and a dead mutt."

"Exactly!" Kinley realized, grinning at Asteria. "I bet your mentor had a hand in this, too. He did the same thing during his Games, after all. Of course, his mutts were more like cows and pigs, but it's the same idea. And if he sent us the plate, it must be okay—"

"_What _must be okay?"

Kinley beamed at him, then took her knife and sawed one of the tentacles off the mutt. More green goo oozed out, but Kinley didn't seem bothered at all. She simply tossed the tentacle to Barclay, grinning.

"Dinner."

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

"It's a map."

Brennan nodded sleepily. "All right, it's a map. I'm with you so far. But why wake us up in the middle of … well, whatever time of day it is, to show us this? Why couldn't it wait?"

Grace smiled patiently. "See the blinking lights?"

Brennan nodded. They made the map hard to look at, hard to get a clear picture of – always blinking on and off. Some of the lights even seemed to be moving, slowly, bit by bit, around the screen. What was Grace getting at?

Suddenly, Blythe gasped. "I see it!"

Grace nodded. "Exactly. Elaine, go to the other side of the room – just for a moment."

Brennan raised an eyebrow. Could they really be that lucky? Elaine glanced at him, and he nodded. "Go ahead. I think I know what she's getting at."

Sure enough, when Elaine moved to the other side of the room, one of the lights at the end of the map moved with her.

"The lights are us," Grace explained. "All of us, that is – all the tributes. But not just the ones that are left. I counted; there are thirty-six lights, so—"

"So some of the lights are the dead bodies," Brennan realized. "Which means they probably aren't coming to collect them."

"Exactly," Grace agreed. "But, if we study it long enough, we should be able to get some idea of which lights are moving and which ones aren't. Moving lights – living tributes. Lights that stay where they are – dead bodies."

"Or tributes staying in one place," Blythe pointed out. "Sleeping tributes. Tributes who found a good place to rest. And the moving lights could be bodies that are being moved – because they were in the way, because a mutt found them and dragged them off, because the Gamemakers want to confuse us."

Brennan nodded. "It's not perfect. And, in the end, we're only seeing what the Gamemakers want us to see, anyway. But it's a start. It's something to go on. We can use it to start planning our moves – see when it's safe to head for the cornucopia, where we might find other tributes who might have supplies, where there might be dead bodies we can loot. Grace, you're a genius!"

Only then did Brennan realize the others were staring at him.

"I was thinking we could use it to _avoid _tributes," Blythe pointed out.

Elaine nodded. "If we have some idea of where the other tributes are, we'll know if anyone's coming this way. We can tell when someone's approaching and leave."

Grace said nothing. But Brennan could feel her eyes on him. Waiting. Wondering what he would say. Brennan hesitated. They were right; it was a perfect defense. But it was also a weapon. They couldn't hide here forever. Already the four of them were beginning to tire from lack of food and water. And it would only get worse unless they found some supplies quickly.

He knew he was right. But they were also right. And the thought of how quickly he had come to the conclusion that they could use the map for planning attacks rather than escapes – it scared them. Almost as much as it scared him.

But he was _right_.

Fortunately, Grace said it first. "Brennan's right. Hiding in here without food and water – it's suicide. We need to go out, find some supplies. _Then _we can come back here and wait. Right?"

"Of course," Brennan agreed, his gaze meeting Grace's. Neither of them said it, but they both knew the truth: Once they left, once they started _doing_ something, the Gamemakers would never let them go back to doing nothing. They had to keep moving forwards, towards the end of the Game.

But Blythe and Elaine weren't ready – not yet. Not ready to admit that they couldn't just sit here and wait out the Games forever. But they could be persuaded – coaxed, tricked – into taking that first step.

And then there would be no going back.

* * *

**Daedem Luthra, 18  
****District One**

There was no going back now.

Daedem fingered his hatchet as he, Francis, and Lynher prowled the corridors together. Almost like a pack of animals.

No, _just_ like a pack of animals.

Because they were animals now. Or, at least, he was. He was a killer – but not because he'd wanted to be. Not even because he'd made a choice – not really. What he had done, he'd done purely out of instinct. It had been a split-second reaction, one he hadn't been able to control.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Because that was much better – much more comforting – than the idea that he had _chosen_ to kill his district partner. That he had seen her face, recognized her, and killed her anyway. He hadn't known. He hadn't known it was her.

But if he _had_ … would it have made a difference? Or would he have killed her, anyway?

What was the difference, after all, between killing her and killing one of the other tributes? Had he really known her any better than any of the others? They'd spoken, sure, but what did he really know about her? They had only met a few days ago. They weren't friends. They weren't even allies.

They were animals. Just two animals trapped in a cage – and one of them had killed the other. Nothing remarkable. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Just animals.

Daedem turned the hatchet over in his hands. If they were going to behave like animals, maybe they should start thinking like animals. Like a pack. And, for all they knew, they were the strongest pack in the arena.

Maybe it was time they started acting like it.

"We're not going to find anyone here," Daedem decided at last. "We should head back towards the cornucopia."

The other two stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What?" Francis asked. "Why? We have everything we need – food, water, supplies, weapons."

Daedem nodded. "Yes, and we can pick those up on the way, so that no one else finds them. We're not going back to the cornucopia to steal or to hunt. We're going back there to take it."

"Take it," Lynher repeated. "The three of us."

"Why _not_?"

"Because the Careers—"

"_What _Careers? We don't even know who's there – or _if_ there's anyone there, for that matter. What we _do _know is that we made off with three huge backpacks of supplies during the bloodbath, and got away completely unharmed. If there _is _anyone at the cornucopia, they didn't do a very good job of stopping us then. Why should they be any more competent now?"

No one had an answer to that.

"Exactly," Daedem growled. "We have as much right to it as they do, and if they can't hold it, then we should take it."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "And if they can?"

"Then we retreat. And no harm done. But we should at least _try_."

Francis met Daedem's gaze. He knew. Once they tried this – once they made their move – there would be no going back. No retreat. They would take the cornucopia, or they would die in the attempt. There was no halfway, no minor victory. But neither of them said anything. It would be easier to convince Lynher if they pretended they could change their minds later, go back if things turned sour.

And it worked. Lynher nodded. "All right. Let's try it. And if we can't do it – well, we just leave, right?"

"Right," Daedem lied. "We leave."

* * *

**Shilo Chanteau, 15  
****District Eight**

She had to leave.

Shilo paced the floor of the room she had settled in for the night. She had to leave. She had to get out. She had to get away.

There had to be a way out.

There was always a way out.

Even in the indoor arenas, there was always a way out. Always a way to get outside. The school had a playground. The shopping center had an outdoor garden. In the aviary, one tribute had climbed through the ceiling and onto the roof outside. The airport had an exit that had led to the runway, and even the catacombs had tunnels that led up and out – to let in air, and to allow sponsor gifts to be delivered. The skyscraper had windows, and one tribute had managed to climb out – and had made it a few stories down before falling. If he'd only held on a little big longer, he could have made it.

There was always a way out, if tributes were clever.

And the audience loved clever tributes. They loved it when a tribute found a way to take what they were given and use it in an unexpected fashion. A note sent by sponsors to lure a tribute to a given location. A well-timed cannon that allowed a tribute to fake her own death. A razor-sharp plant turned into a weapon. Sponsors loved that sort of thing.

And, right now, she needed sponsors.

Shilo shook her head and sat down on the floor. Maybe it would be better to conserve her strength. Wait a while. She had no food. No water. She probably wasn't thinking straight.

But, unless she did something, that wasn't likely to change. She had to do _something_. Had to get _somewhere_. Had to keep moving forward.

"There _has_ to be a way out," she muttered to herself.

As if in answer, a part of the wall slid away, revealing some sort of passage. Shilo giggled. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of that before? For that matter, why hadn't _anyone_ thought of simply _asking _the Gamemakers if there was a way out? It was so obvious, no one had ever done it before. The audience would love it!

Shilo hurried into the passage, and the door closed behind her. But, in front of her, another opened. Shilo giggled gleefully and followed where they were leading her.

The path turned. Curved. Whenever one door closed behind her, another opened. Gradually, the lights in the passage became dimmer. The paths grew narrower. Shilo hesitated. Were they leading her into a trap? But why? Why would they do that, when she had been so clever?

And what choice did she have now but to go on?

No. No, there was no turning back – not now. Too many doors had closed behind her. She could only go forward, and so she did. Farther and farther into the dark.

Finally, a door slid open, and Shilo stumbled forward into a large, empty room. The door slid shut behind her, and Shilo glanced around, looking for anything that might be a door. Then she saw it – the whole far wall _was _a set of doors – doors that were slowly beginning to open.

Then she heard it – a soft, hissing sound, coming from the doorway. Shilo hesitated. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Instinctively, she backed away from the door, but, as it opened more, she realized she was being drawn – pulled, sucked – towards the door. Shilo gasped. The air was growing thin.

The air was being sucked out.

Out into space.

Desperate, Shilo tried to run. Tried to find something to grab onto. Her fingers clutched at the door as she was drawn past it, but it was too late.

She was outside.

It was cold. Terribly cold. But even worse was the air – or, rather, that there wasn't any. Shilo's hands flew to her throat as she dangled in midair, her mouth hanging open, useless. Why? Why had they done this? Why would they want to hurt her?

Why…

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

_Boom_.

Blythe nearly jumped as the cannon sounded. Eleven so far. Eleven cannons. Eleven dead tributes.

And Brennan wanted to go out there.

He had a point, of course. They couldn't hide forever. But where was the harm in hiding just a little longer?

"There!" Grace pointed to the map. "I bet that's what the cannon was. There's a light outside the station."

Blythe looked where Grace was pointing. Sure enough, one of the lights was now blinking outside the border of the station – but only just outside. "Someone found a way outside," Brennan realized.

"Probably an accident," Elaine agreed.

Blythe looked away. An accident. Just like she'd been afraid of. And if an accident could happen somewhere else on the station, then it could happen here. They weren't safe here. They weren't safe anywhere.

So maybe Brennan was right about leaving.

If they weren't going to be safe here, anyway, they might as well do something. There was no one nearby on the map. There certainly wouldn't be any harm in going out and looking for supplies now. They'd rested as much as they could. Maybe it _was _time to do something.

Maybe.

Blythe turned to Brennan. "So what's the plan?"

Brennan looked over the map one more time. A group of three tributes was moving – but they were moving away from them, towards the red area in the center that was probably the cornucopia, judging by the number of lights. How many of them were tributes and how many were dead bodies, Blythe wasn't sure, but that was certainly an area to avoid.

There weren't any lights in the purple section, but there were three in the blue section – a group of two, and one by itself. None of them seemed to have moved. "All right," Brennan said at last. "Here's the plan. We can cover more ground if we split up, and it seems fairly safe to do so at the moment. We search the purple area first – there don't seem to be any tributes there, so we're just looking for anything we can gather. If we don't find anything, we head for the blue area. Grace and I will check out these two lights, see if they're dead or alive. If they're dead, we take anything we can and go. If they're alive, we assess the situation and decide on our next move. Blythe, Elaine, you see what this light here is. Same thing. Dead – gather supplies. Alive – you make the call. Any questions?"

Blythe bit her tongue. She wanted to go with him, not Elaine. But Brennan had seemed quite certain about the groups, so there must be a reason. So she said nothing.

"What if the lights go out?" Elaine asked. "What do we do?"

A good question. A logical question. Maybe working with Elaine wouldn't be so bad.

Brennan shook his head. "Come straight back. If you run into anything unexpected, you come right back here and wait. If you're attacked, you try to make your way back here. You shouldn't be – there's no one in the area right now – but that could change. And there could be mutts, too. If you think you've been out there too long, you come back. If you see anything threatening, you come back. No unnecessary risks. No stupid decisions because you want to be the one to find something. We play it safe. We see what's out there. Then we come back. Okay?"

No. No, it wasn't okay. But nothing in the arena was. And it was the best plan they had. Reluctantly, Blythe nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

Just one more cannon.

Fletcher paced back and forth as quietly as he could in the hallway outside the cornucopia room, his knife in one hand, his broken chair leg in the other. It would be better to stay still, maybe, but he just couldn't stand still. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Just one more cannon.

Three cannons. Lights on. Three cannons. Lights off. Simple. Almost too simple. Would the Gamemakers change it up? No, probably not. Not this soon. Not until more tributes figured it out. Three seemed to be the theme, after all. Three tributes from each district. Three cannons to change the lights.

Three tributes who had scored a zero.

Fletcher shook his head. That one was probably just a coincidence. There was no way the Gamemakers could have known that he would just let the rabbit go. No way they could have known that Niles would simply walk out. And the third zero – the girl from Three … what had she done? Did they have some reason to target her, as well?

Or maybe it was just coincidence.

Or maybe it didn't matter.

No, not maybe. Of course it didn't matter. None of it mattered, in the end. Niles was dead. And he would probably be dead soon – the Capitol would see to that. _All _of them would be dead soon – all except one. Just one, out of thirty-five.

And it wouldn't be him.

So he might as well make the most of the time he had left. Foil the Capitol's plans as much as he could. Disrupt the Games as much as possible.

Which was why he was going after the cornucopia.

Not to take over it – just to steal as much as he could. As soon as the lights were off – go in, steal as many supplies as he could, and then get out. Scatter them throughout the arena. Provide the less fortunate tributes with a way of surviving a little longer.

Because that was exactly what the Capitol didn't want. They didn't want the tributes to stay safe and secure. They wanted to draw them out with the promise of supplies. They wanted those who hadn't been fortunate enough to escape the bloodbath with anything but their lives to be desperate enough to try anything. Desperate enough to steal. To kill. To become animals.

Fletcher meant to deny them that.

If he could keep the weaker tributes well-supplied, they had a chance. And that was the best he could hope for now – to have a hand in helping the victor, to make sure the victory went to someone who _deserved _it, not to someone who got there playing by the Capitol's rules.

Maybe it wouldn't do any good, in the end, but it was all he had left – the hope that, somehow, in some small way, what he did now would make a difference. He was dead either way. Might as well do something good with it.

And, even if it didn't do any good, at least he would go out with a bang.

Because that was the other part of the plan. If it failed, he was dead. Quickly. Probably painlessly. Which was probably a better end than what the Capitol had planned for him. If he died at the hands of those defending the cornucopia – if they proved to be a bit more competent than he thought, if he couldn't take them by surprise as planned – at least they would make it quick. They weren't sadistic. They weren't monsters. They were just trying to survive.

And he would do the same for them, if it came to that. A quick death. A painless death. Which was the best that thirty-five of them could ask for.

Fletcher settled down a good twenty paces away from the door. Soon. Once the lights went out, he would make his move.

One more cannon.

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14  
****District One**

There was nothing in the purple section.

Elaine glanced at the walls, which had turned from purple to blue. They'd been gone for perhaps an hour so far – in and out of rooms, down one corridor and up another, backtracking after hitting dead ends. It was quickly becoming obvious that they weren't going to find anything.

"All right," Elaine said at last. "Let's see if we can find that tribute."

Blythe nodded reluctantly. "All right."

The pair of them turned left. The single light had been near the bottom of the map as they'd been looking at. So that was probably left. Hopefully. Maybe.

And if it wasn't – if they didn't run into anyone – well, all the better.

They had to find supplies, of course, but Elaine was in no hurry to start looting through dead bodies, or, worse, stealing supplies from those who were still alive. But what choice did they have? Brennan was right – this was better than going back to the cornucopia.

And what made stealing from these tributes any different than stealing from the Careers? Of course, if they stole something from the cornucopia, the Careers would still have supplies. There was no way they'd be able to carry off everything. If they found another tribute now and took their supplies, they'd be leaving them with nothing. Defenseless.

They might as well be killing them.

But that was the point, wasn't it? To kill the others?

Elaine clenched her fists. Stellar had been trying to tell her that ever since the train rides. Eventually, directly or indirectly, she would have to kill. So if they found someone alive, maybe it would be better to simply kill them now, if they could.

But could they?

Elaine glanced at Blythe. Could they kill someone, the two of them? Brennan had sent them after the single light rather than the pair. Was it because he was hoping the two of them might be able to overpower a single tribute, if they had the chance?

Or was he hoping he and Grace might be able to take on the pair of tributes?

No. No, he probably wasn't hoping for either. He was probably hoping that all three were already dead. Dead bodies they could pillage. But what were they really going to find? Surely if the tributes had been carrying anything useful, whoever killed them would have taken it.

Unless they'd been killed by mutts. She hadn't seen any – and they didn't seem to be represented on the map – but there must be mutts somewhere in the arena. And if mutts had been responsible for the deaths, would they still be in the area, or would they run off?

Probably whatever the Gamemakers wanted.

Which made it a bit pointless, really. If the Gamemakers wanted them to run into mutts, there would be mutts. If they wanted them to find other tributes, they would drive them together. Nothing was under their control – not really. So maybe they were better off just going along with it.

"There!"

Blythe's shriek startled Elaine from her thoughts. Elaine looked where Blythe was pointing. There, down a hall off to the right, there was a body.

And it was definitely a body. Even from a distance, she could see blood pooled around it, soaking the floor, staining it red. Hesitantly, Elaine ventured a little closer. Definitely dead. A dead girl. Only once she was within a few feet did she recognize the body.

It was Henri.

Elaine dropped to her knees, shocked. Henri. Her district partner. Elaine hadn't even known she was dead. The blood – so much blood – was from a single wound in her chest, deep and brutal. Elaine looked away.

Blythe crept closer and wrapped an arm around Elaine's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come on. Let's go. Let's go back now. Let's get out of here."

Elaine shook her head. "We should see if she has anything."

But she didn't. If she'd had any supplies, they were long gone – taken by whatever monster had killed her. Slowly, Elaine got to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks. Why Henri? She was certain Henri wouldn't have attacked anyone first. She probably hadn't had any useful supplies or weapons to defend herself. It was senseless. It was cruel.

It wasn't fair.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

There was nothing in the purple section.

Grace glanced at Brennan as the two of them continued to search the blue section for the pair of tributes who had appeared on the map. They hadn't even really checked much of the purple section. They'd looked down a few hallways, but quickly continued on to the blue section. Had this been his plan from the start? Skip over the first part and simply look for tributes?

"Why me?" Grace asked in a whisper.

Brennan cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"They would have done whatever you said. Followed whatever plan you laid out. You could have picked any of us to come with you, and you picked me rather than your district partner. Why?"

Brennan stopped in his tracks in the middle of the hallway. "I don't know."

"I think you do."

"Look, I don't—"

Grace crossed her arms. "Brennan, we're about to find and attack two tributes who may very well be armed and able to overpower us, on the off-chance that we'll be able to overpower them instead and take their supplies. The least you could do is tell me why you chose me."

"How did you—"

"I was staring at that map as long as you were. Those lights moved. Not a lot, but enough. Probably two tributes moving about in a room the same way we were moving around ours. They're alive. You're planning to attack them. Fine. I'm with you. We need supplies; they've probably got some. I'm guessing you're waiting for the lights to go off, and then hoping to sneak in and catch them at unawares. It's not a bad plan, and that explains why we split up in the first place. Easier for two of us to sneak in rather than four. But still. Why me?"

Brennan opened his mouth to say something. Then shut it again. He looked away. Grace nodded. "Is it because I'm expendable?"

Brennan's eyebrows shot up. "What? Why would you say something like that?"

"Because there's a good chance that this won't end well. You'd be too worried about Blythe, so you chose me. If I die … Well, it's obvious Elaine isn't really comfortable with me. Maybe it would be better for the group if I didn't come back. Is that it?"

"No," Brennan insisted. "Believe me, that's not it."

"Then why?"

"Because you understand."

"Understand what?"

"What we have to do." Brennan met her gaze. "When you showed us that map, the others wanted to use it to evade the other tributes. To avoid conflict. When I suggested using it as a weapon … the way they looked at me…" He trailed off. "But you backed me up. I won't forget that."

Grace shook her head. "You can't shield them forever."

"No, I can't," Brennan admitted. "Eventually, they'll have to fight if they want to survive. But, Grace, they're not ready. If I took either of them with me now, they might not be able to handle it. They might not do what needs to be done, and, even if they did, it might break them."

"But not me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you woke me up in the middle of the night to show me a map. If you'd wanted to use it simply for defense, you could have just checked to make sure that no other tributes were in the area and waited for the rest of us to wake up to show it to us. But you were thinking the same thing I was. You were thinking like a tribute."

For a moment, Grace simply stared. He was right. She didn't like it, but he was right. "Okay," she said at last. "So where are we going?"

"About a couple hallways back the way we came. I saw shadows underneath one of the doors. But you're right – we're waiting until the lights go off."

Grace shook her head. "You told Blythe and Elaine we'd all go back when the lights went off."

Brennan smiled grimly. "I lied."

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

Everyone was headed for the cornucopia.

Cassandra and Ryzer ducked farther into a room off one of the hallways. The older boy from Eight was lurking in the hallway outside the cornucopia. The boys from One, Eleven, and Twelve were a bit farther down one of the halls, waiting for their chance. The pair from Two was still at the cornucopia, waiting. Did they know what was coming?

Ryzer was giggling softly. She and Cassandra of them weren't about to charge out there and attack any of the groups, of course. Let the six of them fight it out. Let them do the hard work. The two of them would be there to pick up the pieces. They could sit back, watch, and see who was left. Then they would decide what to do.

Then they could make their move.

But, for now, their best bet was to get a bit farther away from the cornucopia. Cassandra turned to Ryzer and held a finger to her lips, silencing the younger girl. Quietly, the pair of them snuck out of the room and down the hallway. As long as no one else was coming to the party, they would be able to sneak away.

Down one hallway they crept. Then another. Far enough away from the fighting. For a moment, she had considered staying, just out of sight, and hoping that she and Ryzer could pick off one or two stragglers that might flee from the coming fight. But, of the six of them, she doubted many – if any – would run. And most of them were older. Stronger. Better armed. If she and Ryzer tried to pick them off, they might very well turn from hunters to prey.

Better to choose their battles carefully. Better to wait. Better to be patient, at least for now. There was no need for unnecessary risks – not yet. Later, maybe. Later in the Games, they might be forced to take more chances. But not now. For now, they could wait.

At least for a little while.

Suddenly, Ryzer's head perked up, and she turned to Cassandra with a grin. "You hear something?" Cassandra whispered.

Ryzer nodded and pointed down the hall.

Cassandra smirked and followed her ally down the hall, towards a room. The door was closed, but Ryzer seemed certain. "You sure?" Cassandra mouthed.

Ryzer nodded.

As quietly as she could, Cassandra turned the handle. Then, with one push, she flung the door open.

A girl darted out.

Without thinking, Cassandra took off in pursuit, with Ryzer close behind her. The girl glanced over her shoulder, and Cassandra caught a glimpse of her face. The girl from Three – the pretty one.

Luke's ally.

"We'll get you, Three!" Cassandra called after the girl. "We'll get you for Luke!"

Ryzer was grinning. She understood. If they could make this look like revenge – revenge for abandoning Luke – the audience would eat it right up. Maybe even Vernon would.

The girl, of course, didn't care why they were chasing her. The shouting only made her run faster. Soon, Cassandra was gasping for air. She could hear Ryzer wheezing beside her. Maybe this wasn't a race they could win.

Suddenly, something pulled into view up ahead. Some sort of train car, blocking the girl's path. As Cassandra and Ryzer were still racing to catch up, the car door opened, and the girl darted inside. Immediately, the door slid shut again, and the train car sped off.

Cassandra and Ryzer both slowed to a halt, breathing hard. Cassandra clapped Ryzer on the back. "Next time," she gasped, still grinning for the cameras.

"We'll get her next time."

* * *

**Natasha Kovaćić, 16  
****District Three**

"Natasha!"

Natasha whirled around, surprised by the familiar voice. She had assumed the car was empty. She hadn't really had time to think. She'd simply wanted to get away from the other girls. She'd never considered the possibility that she might run into someone worse.

Especially him.

"I thought you were dead," she admitted.

Dewan glared back. "Why? Because you left me to face Luke alone? Because you ran away as I was calling for help?" He took a step closer, knife in hand, as the hallways continued to speed by outside.

Natasha took a step back. But she had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. He'd obviously been lying in wait for whoever happened to stumble into the car.

So why hadn't he attacked?

What was he waiting for?

She put on her best smirk. "You're not going to kill me."

Dewan scoffed. "And why not?"

"Because if you were going to attack me, you would have done it already. You would have done it the second I stepped in the door. I'm obviously unarmed. You could have caught me off guard and finished me quickly. But you didn't. Why?"

Dewan hesitated. Natasha smiled a little. He didn't want to kill her. He didn't care that she'd left him any more than the girls from Six cared that she'd left Luke. It was all for show. All for the cameras, the audience. Well, two could play that game. "Do you want to know why I left you and Luke?"

He didn't care one bit. He knew she was stalling. But he also knew the audience would eat it up. "Why?"

"To see who would win. Obviously, you were going to fight it out. Why choose one side or the other unless I was certain? Now I am. If you still want to be allies, fine. If you don't, either let me walk away or just get it over with and attack me. So what's it going to be?"

Dewan thought it over for a moment.

Then he lunged.

Even as he did, Natasha knew she would have done the same. He was never going to trust her, and she was never going to trust him. What kind of an alliance would that have been? And, by the same token, they couldn't simply let each other walk away. The audience wouldn't stand for that now. They wanted blood.

So they would get it.

Natasha sidestepped Dewan's first blow and landed a punch to his jaw. Dewan took a step back, startled. That was just the chance she needed. A kick to the crotch brought him to his knees, and then she went for the knife.

But Dewan was smiling a little, still gripping the knife tightly. "Is that the best you can do?" he spat, swinging his leg around, sending her tumbling, sprawled on the floor. The knife swept by her face, slicing down the left side. Natasha tasted blood as she rolled out of his reach. "Punches and kicks. Rather amateur of you. One might even say you're rather – _green!_"

The train car lurched to a halt. Dewan quickly rolled to the side as Natasha scrambled to her feet. Dewan sprang up, and, just as the door behind Natasha slid open, gave her a shove.

Natasha screamed, clawing at the edges of the door, but it was too late. She was falling. Falling, faster and faster. She could see the ground below her – green and beautiful, and coming up so very, very fast.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

There hadn't been a cannon.

Alasdair raced for where the tribute had fallen, heedless of his allies screaming for him to return. Whoever it was, they were still alive. And if they were still alive, then he could help them. He could save them. He could make up for what he had done.

For what he had let the others do.

Because it was his fault, in the end. They had been trying to save him. If he hadn't been there, if he hadn't needed saving, none of it would have happened. Eigen would still be alive.

But Eigen was dead. And Dennar was losing it. And maybe he was losing it too. Maybe he was mad. Maybe they were all mad.

But maybe saving someone would cure the madness.

As soon as he saw his district partner, however, Alasdiar knew that she was beyond saving. She was lying on her side – or what was left of her side – her right arm crushed beneath her. Her head was bleeding where it had struck the ground, and from a wound down the left side of her face – a slice from some sort of blade. Her right leg was bent at an odd angle, her eyes half-open, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.

Alasdair dropped to his knees at her side and took her hand in both of his. "Natasha? Nathasha, it's me. Alasdair."

She didn't respond. Maybe she hadn't heard. Maybe she was already too far gone. But, just for a moment, Alasdair thought he felt her hand move a little in his. As if she were trying to squeeze his hand. As if she wanted him to stay with her.

So he stayed.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, kneeling by her broken body. It couldn't have been long. Maybe a few minutes. But it felt like ages. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down onto the ground beneath him. Tears for her. For Eigen. Maybe a few for himself and his allies. Maybe he had enough tears for every tribute in the arena.

Because surely they all deserved some.

Each of them deserved that much, at least – to have someone who would cry for them. So he would do that, even if he couldn't do anything else. He would weep for them – for all of them. For what they had suffered. For what they had been forced to do.

Alasdair barely heard the cannon. Barely realized that the lights had gone out once again, that the garden was once more lit solely by the pale blue fountain. It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. Maybe none of it had ever mattered.

"Alasdair?" It was Dennar's voice, behind him. Alasdair turned to face his ally. There were tears in the older boy's eyes, as well. Enzo stood beside him, shaking, tears streaming down his face. They hadn't known Natasha. They hadn't known Eigen. But they knew him. And so they wept with him.

Alasdair turned back to Natasha's body. At last, he took a deep breath, wiped away a few of his tears, and closed Natasha's eyes. Dennar took a few steps towards Alasdair, hesitant, maybe wondering whether Alasdair would shrink away from him again.

He didn't. As Dennar knelt beside him, Alasdair buried his face in the older boy's shirt, sobbing. Enzo joined them, and, soon, the three of them were huddled together. Alasdair held his allies close.

Together, they watered the garden with their tears.

* * *

**Carolina Young  
****District Eight Mentor**

"You all right?"

Carolina wrapped an arm around Miriam's shoulders, already knowing the answer to her question. Of course she wasn't all right. Miriam had just lost two tributes in the same day, while the third was sitting in a garden crying his eyes out.

"Every year," Miriam muttered. "Every year, I end up wondering. Is there something more I could have done? Something that might have saved them?"

Lander plopped down across from the pair of them. "Not a thing. Occasionally, there might be something we can do that'll help them a little, give them a few more hours or maybe even a few more days. But in the end? All but one of them dies. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"But Natasha—"

Carolina shook her head. "Think it through. What could you have done? She had food. She had supplies. What would you have sent her? There's nothing you could have sent that would have stopped Cassandra and Ryzer from finding her. If you had managed to send her a message telling her that Dewan was in the shuttle – if she hadn't gotten in – they would have caught her, instead."

"If she'd had a weapon—"

"She had a chance to grab a weapon," Carolina pointed out. "She was at the cornucopia. She had her pick. She went for food, instead. I would have done the same thing. So would you. Most people would. And nine times out of ten, that would have been the right choice. She was just unlucky."

"Unlucky," Miriam repeated. "It's easier that way, isn't it. Chalking it all up to luck."

"It is easier," Lander agreed. "That doesn't make it wrong. Dewan had the advantage in that shuttle. He had a weapon. He knew the layout. He knew calling for the green sector would lead to a long drop. There's nothing you could have done to change that."

"And Eigen?"

Lander shrugged. "Anything you could have done to help Eigen would have hurt Alasdair. Anything you sent either of them would have meant choosing one of them over the other. You chose to let them fight it out and see who came out on top. That was the right choice – because the tribute who came out of that alive is the one more likely to come out of the Games, anyway."

"Even if that tribute is a twelve-year-old?"

"I guess so," Lander agreed. "A twelve-year-old happens to be District Eight's best chance at the moment, too."

Carolina nodded. It was cruel, but he was right. Fletcher had ruined his chances a long time ago. He was going to die, and he knew it; it was only a matter of how and when. All she could hope for now was that it would be quick. Merciful. That maybe the fact that he had gone along with killing Niles would spare him a torturous death.

And Shilo … Was there something she could have done? Maybe. But Lander was right. Even if she'd managed to scrape together enough sponsors to send her some food or a weapon, mentally, Shilo wasn't there. The girl who had entered the arena, the girl who had sat there calmly during the interviews, the girl who had been so composed, so in control – that girl was already gone.

And then there was Enzo. Enzo, of all people, was still alive. Yes, he was shaken. He was grieving. But he was alive. He had kept his cool. If someone had said it at the reaping a week ago, Lander would have laughed, but now he'd said it with a straight face: Enzo _was_ their best chance.

Maybe he always had been.

* * *

"_I've had this feeling lately that we're standing at a crossroads – and I don't like where we're going."_


	33. Follow the Path

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First off, just an advance notice that there are quite a few tributes you won't hear from this chapter, as this chapter focuses mostly on what's happening at the cornucopia and in Blue Sector. I haven't forgotten the other tributes. You'll hear from them next chapter. I experimented with putting one or two more povs at the end of the chapter to show what was going on with them, but it always felt tacked on and forced. They'll be back next chapter.

Second, results of the "district trio" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking who you think the three tributes on the President's list were. (The three tributes the President wants to make sure don't win the Games.) This won't be up long, since one or more of them will be revealed next chapter, but I'm curious about how obvious I've made them.

Lastly, _Jakey121_, _mikitty bast_, and _bobothebear _all have open SYOTs, so if you're looking for a good place to submit, send them some tributes! Bobo's closes in a few hours, though, so if you're sending one in, you might want to hurry.

* * *

**Day Two  
****Follow the Path**

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

Twenty-four tributes.

Silas adjusted his glasses, then returned to drumming his fingers on his leg, hoping he looked a lot calmer than he felt. Twenty-four tributes. The normal amount for a Hunger Games.

And all three of his were still alive.

At the moment, only District Two could say the same. Not bad company.

Of course, that couldn't last forever. And chances were, it wouldn't even last long. Blythe was fairly safe for the moment – as safe as she could be, at least. She and Elaine had made it back to the observation dome without incident just as the lights had gone out. But Brennan was preparing to attack Saoirse and Jason – although, of course, he and Grace had no way of _knowing_ that it was Saoirse and Jason – and Francis and his allies were about to attack the cornucopia. Meanwhile, Fletcher was planning the same thing.

So much would depend on who moved first.

All three groups were counting on the element of surprise – counting on the darkness to hide them for a little while. But only Fletcher seemed to have figured out the pattern to the lights. Once the killing began, that window of darkness would be very limited. If any of them missed it…

They all needed to move first.

"You just want to shout at them sometimes," a voice agreed quietly. "_Go! Just go! You've got the chance – just take it_!"

Silas raised an eyebrow at his unexpected guest. "You didn't strike me as the shouting type, Glenn."

Glenn smiled a little. "Generally, no. But if it would save someone's life – yeah, I can shout with the best of them."

Silas nodded. "And how many people were shouting at you during your Games, I wonder. _Do something, kid! Don't just sit there in the swamp!_" He chuckled a little. "Sometimes patience pays off."

"Not this time," Glenn sighed. "This time, they have to do something. They're already committed. There's no way the Gamemakers will let them just walk away from this. They have to know that. And they're just standing there."

"Can you blame them?"

Glenn shook his head. "No. No, I can't. And that's the worst part – I can't blame them one bit. Because I'd be doing the same thing. Too scared stiff to make the first move. Waiting, hoping that a better option might come along. I'd be standing there for a long time – probably longer than they will."

"And yet you're here."

"I was lucky. I wouldn't survive what the Games have become, Silas. No one's ignored now. Everyone knows better – the Gamemakers, the audience, the other tributes. No one can be overlooked forever. My strategy doesn't work anymore. Eventually, they'll have to do something."

Glenn was right, of course. The Head Gamemaker was too experienced now, too seasoned, to simply let a tribute fade into the background forever. Eventually, they would have to do something. And they were planning to. Sooner or later, they would make their move.

He just hoped it was soon enough.

* * *

**Janardan Fletcher, 18  
****District Eight**

What was he waiting for?

Fletcher gripped his chair leg in one hand and his knife in the other. The lights had gone off a few moments ago. He could have attacked instantly. He could have rushed in their headlong and started the fight they all knew was coming. It could be over by now. And yet he was still standing here, waiting.

Why? It was just another plan. Just another scheme. Just one more death-defying plot for him to carry out. What made this one any different from the others? He'd certainly carried out much more ridiculous plans before.

But he'd never had to carry them out alone.

They'd always been there – his friends. His family. Been there with him. Been there _for _him. Encouraging him, daring him, egging him on until he was willing to do things that no one else would dream of trying. Everything he'd done – everything he'd risked – it had all been for them.

And now they weren't here.

Now they were dead.

And it was his fault. In the end, he was the one who had led them into danger. The one who had taken their simple schemes and plots to such a grandiose scale. He was the reason the Capitol had taken notice of them. He was the reason they were being hunted.

He was the reason they were dead.

Maybe it was time to join them.

"All right," Fletcher whispered, gripping his weapons. _One more time. One more plan. Just one more._

And he charged.

The room was dark, but he'd been expecting that. What he _hadn't _been expecting was for one of the tributes to be standing just inside the door, club in hand. In the dim glow coming from the door, Fletcher had just enough time to duck out of the way before the club smashed into the doorframe.

Fletcher grinned. Had they been expecting him? Had they heard him out in the hall, perhaps? Or had they simply assumed the worst, assumed that someone might try to take advantage of the darkness?

Fletcher dodged another blow, ducking beneath the boy's swing and heading straight for the cornucopia. The boy hesitated a moment before giving chase. He had expected Fletcher to fight – not to run. But Fletcher wasn't there to fight. Wasn't there to kill – not unless he had to.

The Robber Prince was there to steal.

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

He was supposed to stay by the door.

Simone gritted her teeth as Adrian gave chase to the tribute who was now running towards the cornucopia. Of course she couldn't count on him to stick to the plan. Of course he would run after the tribute without really thinking about it.

It had been a good plan. _Her _plan, so of course he'd abandoned it. One of them was supposed to guard each of the two doors. They hadn't been sure which direction an attack would come from. They hadn't even been sure there _would _be an attack. But she'd wanted to be prepared, just in case.

And she had been right.

But Adrian had blown it. Because now that he had abandoned the blue door, three more tributes rushed in. One of them was hanging back by the door, but two of them rushed straight for Adrian, whose back was turned. Simone had no choice but to abandon her place by the green door.

"Behind you!" she called to Adrian as she rushed towards him, a dagger in one hand, a knife in the other. Adrian turned just in time to avoid a hatchet that one of the boys swung.

The other boy raised a dagger, but, by then, Simone was beside him, and caught the blow on her own blade. But the second blow came quickly, slipping through her flimsy defense and slashing at her arm. Simone grimaced, holding back a cry of pain, taking a few steps back as the boy charged.

Maybe killing Calissa _had _been a mistake.

Maybe killing Hogan had been a mistake.

Maybe this whole alliance had been a mistake.

Simone took another step backwards. Then another. She knew what the boy was trying to do – drive her away from Adrian – but there was nothing she could do to stop it. He was bigger than her. He was stronger. He wasn't trained – she was pretty sure he was one of the boys from Twelve – but neither was she. She'd put up a good act, but that act wasn't going to save her now.

So she would have to save herself.

With one last glance back at Adrian, who was still trading blows with the boy from One, Simone turned and ran. Past the tables. Out the green door. Down the hall. The boy didn't follow. Maybe he was too surprised. Maybe he simply wasn't interested. Maybe all he wanted was the cornucopia.

Or maybe he wanted to stay and help his ally.

His ally. She had just abandoned hers. But what was she supposed to do? Adrian, at least, had some training. She had none. What was she supposed to do – stay and die with him?

No. That wasn't an option. That had never been an option. It was always going to come down to this, in the end. She would have to choose between helping him and saving herself.

And she had always planned to choose herself.

* * *

**Adrian Mors, 18  
****District Two**

This was all her fault.

Adrian hollered a curse in Simone's direction as she sprinted out of sight. Of course she would run now. Why had he expected anything else? Hogan. Calissa. And now him. Except she didn't need to kill him herself. She could just let him die.

Adrian swung his club again, catching the boy from Twelve on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He had no intention of dying.

Then again, no one ever did.

Adrian took another step back, towards the center of the room. The two boys followed. But only two of them – the boy from One and the older one from Twelve. They'd had an ally, he was pretty sure. Where was he? Already dead? Lurking somewhere? Had he run off when the fighting had started?

And then there was the boy from Eight, who was currently digging through the supplies. Adrian grimaced. One problem at a time. The boy from Eight was a thief, not a fighter. Adrian could deal with him later.

Assuming he survived that long.

The boy from Twelve swung his hatchet again, but it was a clumsy blow. In the darkness, with his night vision glasses, Adrian had the advantage – even against two of them. But the glow from the doors still provided some light. If only…

Of course.

Adrian took a step back as the boy from Twelve almost managed to get his dagger past Adrian's defense. Another step. Then another. Slowly, carefully, he let them drive him backwards. Towards the green door.

Their blows were quicker now. Maybe they thought they were winning. Thought he was going to run – or try to. Like Simone had. But he knew better. If he ran now, all he would have was the club in his hand. No food. No supplies. Eventually, he would have to come back for what he needed. Eventually, this fight would happen.

So why not now?

All he had to do was kill one. Kill one, and the other would run. Probably. Hopefully. Just one.

Just one.

Adrian swung again – a wide arc, building as much momentum as he could. Both boys sprang backwards, dodging his blow. But he hadn't been aiming for either of them. Adrian grinned as his club smashed into the lights that circled the door.

Immediately, their side of the room plunged into complete darkness.

Adrian didn't waste any time. The boy from One was closest, so Adrian went for him first, swinging low and hard. Too startled to dodge the blow, the boy crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain and clutching his leg. Adrian swung again, but this time the boy managed to dodge; the club only grazed his head.

There was no cannon, but Adrian had no time to worry about that. The boy from Twelve had regained his wits, springing between Adrian and his fallen ally. Adrian scoffed a little at the foolish gesture of bravery, but was surprised to find he was envious. Whatever else he could say about these two, at least they hadn't abandoned each other.

Which made them better allies than his.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

Stay by the door.

Lynher stood perfectly still against the wall, hoping that no one had noticed him. "Stay by the door," Daedem had said, hoping that Lynher would at least be able to stop anyone who tried to run.

But he couldn't stand by both doors at once.

The girl from Two had run out the green door. Now Francis and Daedem – and the boy from Two – were over by the same door. He'd never felt so useless.

But what was he supposed to do? Charge into the fray? Daedem had a hatchet. Francis had a dagger. The boy from Two had a club. He had a _knife_. Just a knife.

He could try to find something else, of course. But anything useful was likely to be at the center of the supply pile, and the boy from Eight was rummaging through that like his life depended on it. Which it probably did. Eventually, though, he would try to make a run for it.

Lynher just hoped he ran the other way.

He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to try to kill the boy. But if he ran in his direction … Would he? Daedem had told him to, but how would he know? He could always say that the boy snuck away in the dark and the confusion.

But then they would just have to fight him later.

Lynher swallowed hard. Right now, the boy was probably weak from lack of food and water. He wasn't sure how long it had been, but it had been at least a day – maybe two or even three – since they'd entered the arena. From the way he was sifting through the supplies, he was trying to steal as much as he could carry. He wouldn't be paying attention to one boy huddled by the door. Lynher could jump him. Surprise him.

Kill him?

Lynher gripped his knife. Now that it came down to it … why not? Eventually, he would have to. The boy would have to die. Maybe it would be better to do it now. To make it quick.

Suddenly, the lights by the other door went out. Lynher heard a cry of pain. Daedem? Francis? Either way, he was too far away to help. By the time he made it there…

The he saw the boy. Running towards him. Lynher clenched his teeth. Maybe he couldn't save Daedem and Francis, but he could at least do as they had asked. He could do his job.

Just as the boy passed him, Lynher sprang.

Startled, the boy tried to dodge, but he wasn't fast enough. Lynher's knife plunged deep into his back. Lynher felt something strike his face – an elbow, maybe. Dazed, he stumbled backwards, and something slashed across his cheek before he could dodge. A knife. His knife, already wet with the other boy's blood.

Lynher ducked behind the table as the boy swung again. But it was a clumsy swing. The boy's energy was flowing out of him like the blood flowing from the wound in his back. It was only a matter of time.

_So finish it_.

That was better, wasn't it? Better than letting him die slowly. Lynher charged again, this time going for the knife in the boy's hand. But instead of fighting back, the boy simply stepped out of the way, letting Lynher's momentum trip him as he stuck out his leg.

But Lynher grabbed the other boy as he fell, and the two of them tumbled to the ground together. Lynher rolled, and, soon, he was on top of the other boy. Lynher reached for the knife again, and, this time, met little resistance. One tug, and the knife was his.

Almost as if the boy wanted him to have it.

"All right," the other boy gasped, his voice strained, his breathing ragged. "It's finished." He smiled weakly. "Maybe it was always finished." He closed his eyes. "Just get it over with."

Just get it over with.

Lynher plunged his knife deep into the boy's throat. For a moment, there was an odd, gurgling sound – almost laughter. Then the boy went limp.

Then the cannon sounded.

* * *

**Francis Cooper, 17  
****District Twelve**

_Boom_.

Francis glanced frantically at Daedem, but he couldn't see well enough in the dark to tell whether the cannon had been his. Either way, he couldn't expect any help from his ally at the moment. And Lynher – who knew where Lynher was. If he had any sense, he was long gone.

So why was _he_ still here?

Francis ducked as the boy from Two swung again. He could try to run, of course. But the hallways would be even darker. Even more unfamiliar. He probably had a better chance here, in the open. There was more room to maneuver. And if he could get to the other door, he would have at least a little light.

Of course, the other boy knew that. No matter where Francis moved, the other boy quickly countered, placing himself between Francis and the blue-lit door.

The boy swung again – hard – and Francis sprang to the left. Immediately, he realized that was a mistake, but it was too late. In the dark, he careened into one of the tables, knocking him off-balance. The other boy didn't waste his chance. His club found Francis' shoulder, then his knee. Francis crumpled to the floor, dropping his dagger.

But, just then, the other boy gave a cry and tumbled to the floor. In the dim light coming from the other door, Francis could see something sticking out of the boy's leg.

A hatchet.

For a moment, the three of them lay sprawled on the floor, none of them moving, simply catching their breath. Francis reached for his dagger. If he could just get to it first…

But the other boy moved first. In one move, he pried the hatchet from his own leg and swung it again.

It took Francis a moment to realize that the hatchet was buried in his chest.

It was an odd feeling – not quite pain. Not yet. Maybe the shock was blocking the pain. The shock of being so close – the dagger a matter of inches from his grasp – but being unable to reach it in time. The shock of realizing that, yes, he was going to die. Not in a matter of days or a matter of hours, but now. Very, very soon.

But not yet.

With a loud cry, Francis' hand reached those few inches, clutching the dagger tightly and plunging upwards into the other boy's chest. The boy from Two stared, his expression of shock matching Francis' own as he sank to the floor. He hadn't expected this. But maybe it had been inevitable. Maybe…

Then the pain set in.

Francis was barely aware of Daedem at his side, removing the hatchet, insisting that the wound wasn't so bad. Of course it was bad. Of course he was going to die. It all seemed so clear – so obvious – now. His death was inevitable. Everyone's was, in the end. As certain, as constant, as the sound of those terrible cannons. Boom, boom, boom.

_Boom_.

He wasn't surprised – not really – to hear the real cannon echo his thoughts. Of course it was coming, sooner or later. A part of him was simply surprised that it hadn't been his.

But the next one was.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

_Boom_.

Grace flinched as the third cannon echoed through the hall. Suddenly, the lights snapped on. Grace nearly jumped. Why had they come on again so quickly? Last time, the darkness had lasted a few hours, at least. They had been counting on the same amount of time. They had been counting on the element of surprise.

But now it was gone.

Grace glanced at Brennan, his hesitation mirroring her own. They had been waiting. Maybe he had figured that attacking immediately after the lights went out was a bad move, that the other tributes would be more on guard. Maybe he was hoping that, if the lights stayed off long enough, the other two might go to sleep, and they might be able to sneak in and out without a fight.

Or maybe he was simply afraid. Maybe he was as scared as she was. Now that it came down to it, she wasn't sure. Could they really do this – just the two of them? Brennan had said that Elaine and Blythe weren't ready, but was _he_? Was he really ready to fight?

Was he ready to kill?

And was she?

Maybe they should go back. Back to the others, where they knew it was safe. They could always return here. The next time the lights went out, they could come back. They could try again.

_No unnecessary risks_, Brennan had said. _We play it safe_. But this wasn't safe. It was certainly a risk.

But was it a necessary one? They needed food, after all. They needed supplies. But there was no guarantee. They had no way of knowing whether the tributes in the room actually had anything or not. They could be risking their lives for nothing.

On the other hand, what was in that room might save their lives. And they might not get another chance. If they waited, the tributes might leave. Or others might come and take the supplies themselves. Or it might be too long before the lights went out again. Already she was beginning to feel weaker from hunger and thirst. Whatever their odds of winning a fight were now, they would only decrease as time went on. This might be their best chance.

And if they tried to leave, would they even be able to? Would the Gamemakers let them simply walk away? Or if they tried to leave, would they send mutts to drive them back this way? Surely the audience was expecting _something _to happen. On the other hand, there had just been three cannons in a matter of minutes. Something _was _happening, somewhere else in the arena. Would that be enough for them?

But even if it was enough for now, eventually it wouldn't be. Eventually, they would have to stop playing it safe. They would have to take risks – necessary or otherwise. They would have to fight. They would have to kill. Because that was the only way to survive in the Games.

So maybe it would be better to start now.

Brennan nodded reluctantly, and Grace knew he had come to the same conclusion. They would have to do this eventually. And they might not get another chance. So they had to take this one while they still had it.

They had to do this.

* * *

**Saoirse Terris, 16  
****District Seven**

_Boom_.

Saoirse nearly jumped as the cannon sounded – the third in only a few minutes. As if in answer, the lights flickered back on. "Sounds like someone's having a party," Jason muttered, rolling over a little, his eyes still closed. "I'm just glad they didn't invite us."

Saoirse held her tongue. Maybe he was rude, but he was right. The farther away they were from the action, the better. And three more cannons meant three fewer tributes – three tributes they wouldn't have to fight later.

Three tributes they wouldn't have to kill.

Just then, the door swung open. Two tributes rushed in – a boy and a girl. It took Saoirse a moment to register what was going on, and, in that moment, the two of them spotted the supplies and made a dash for them.

Without thinking, Saoirse tackled the boy.

The boy tried to squirm out of her grasp, but years of wrestling with her brothers paid off. Saoirse's grip held. She reached for her knife.

But, in that moment, an arm wrapped around her throat. The girl, pulling her away from her ally. In an instant, Jason was on top of them both, shoving them all to the ground.

The four of them rolled one way, then another. First one of them was on top, then another. Saoirse threw a punch, but, in the confusion, she wasn't even certain who she hit – the boy, the girl, or even Jason. She struck out with her knife, and a scream let her know that she'd hit something. A sharp tug wrested the knife from her grasp, and it clattered to the floor. Something struck her in the face – a fist or perhaps a foot.

Suddenly, the pile seemed to grow lighter. Saoirse glanced around and saw that the boy had broken away from the fight, blood seeping from a wound in his leg. Was he planning to run? That would be the smart thing to do. Why had he come in the first place? Why had they attacked? She and Jason hadn't done anything to them.

Why didn't they just leave?

Then Saoirse saw what the boy was after – her knife, which lay on the floor a few steps away, just out of her reach. The boy lunged forward, grabbing the knife before Saoirse could stretch far enough to reach it.

Saoirse threw her arms up in front of her face, shielding her head and neck. But the boy didn't go for her neck. Pain shot through Saoirse's side as the knife sliced across her body. Blood spattered. Saoirse screamed. Faintly, as if in a dream, she heard Jason call her name. Dimly, she saw him tackle the boy. Saw the girl go after him, starting the whole wrestling match over again.

Only this time without her.

Saoirse glanced down at her side. At the blood. She tried to sit up, and, when that failed, tried to roll over a little – towards the fight. Jason needed help. He needed her.

But there was nothing she could do. Blood continued to flow from her side and onto the floor with every beat of her heart. Something wet and sticky and stringy spilled out of the wound as she rolled over. Sick from the sight and from the pain, Saorise's stomach gave a lurch, and a wave of agony swept through her as she vomited up her last meal, mixed with blood.

Saoirse could feel tears in her eyes. This wasn't how she'd wanted it to end. Of course, she hadn't really given much thought to how she _did _want it to end. She hadn't wanted it to end at all. She'd wanted to live.

She'd just wanted to live…

* * *

**Jason Vaz, 15  
****District Seven**

_Boom_.

Tears filled Jason's eyes as he threw another punch. If Saoirse was dead – if the cannon had been hers – then these two were just as dead. They just didn't know it yet.

An elbow to the chest took the girl out of the picture for a moment, and Jason took the opportunity to go for the knife, tightly clutched in the boy's hand and dripping with Saoirse's blood. The boy didn't let go, so Jason simply grabbed his wrist, forcing the knife towards the boy's throat.

Just then, Jason felt something wrap around his throat. A pair of hands, reaching from behind. Jason thrashed one way, then another, but the hands held fast. Jason gasped. "Wait! Please, wait! I'll leave. I'll just leave. You can have the food. Just let me leave. Please!"

The pair of them hesitated. The grip on his throat loosened, as did the boy's grip on the knife. Just for a moment – instinct, maybe – but that moment was all he needed. Jason slammed the boy's wrist against the floor, and the knife clattered from his hand. Jason scooped it up.

But, before he could use it, the girl's grip tightened again, cutting off his air. Jason slashed blindly behind him, and a gasp of pain told him he'd hit something, but the girl held fast. The other boy reached for the knife, but Jason held on. He had to hold on.

But he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think – not properly. Couldn't do anything but grip the knife tighter, hoping that the girl would let go.

She didn't.

Everything was growing darker. Darker. Jason tried to struggle, but everything felt so heavy. His arms, his legs, the knife in his hand. They were all just weighing him down. His body was just weighing him down.

Maybe it would be easier to let go.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

He was alive.

Brennan heaved a sigh of relief as the boy's cannon sounded. He was alive. And Grace was alive. Blood seeped from a gash in Grace's left shoulder where the boy's knife had struck, and Brennan's right wrist felt as if it were on fire. Whether it was broken or simply badly bruised, he wasn't sure. Blood was dripping from the wound in his left leg, but it didn't seem deep. And, at the moment, the pain was almost a relief. Because it meant he was still alive.

Maybe that was all that mattered for now.

There were tears in Grace's eyes. Whether from the pain or from grief over what she'd done, Brennan wasn't sure. Brennan looked away. What she'd done. What they'd done. What they'd had to do. There hadn't been a choice. There had never been a choice.

Brennan quickly rummaged through the tributes' supplies, looking for bandages, but found only food. Finally, he took the knife, cut away part of the other boy's shirt, and wrapped it around Grace's shoulder as well as he could with his own injured wrist. Then he tended to his own leg. It wasn't perfect, but they could worry about perfect later. Right now, he just had to stop the bleeding, and the shirt did the job.

By then, Grace had recovered her wits. "We should head back to the others. There've been five cannons since we separated. They'll be worried about us."

Brennan nodded. She was right. If Elaine and Blythe got too worried, they might come looking for them. And there was no telling who else might be in the area by now. "All right. Let's take what we can and get out of here."

Grace helped him repack the supplies, but, as she tucked a pair of water bottles in the pack, she hesitated. She shook one, then looked inside. "It's full." She checked the other one. "So's this one."

Brennan shrugged. "So we got lucky. Good."

Grace shook her head. "Not just lucky. Think about it. Let's say it's been a day since the Games began. Probably more. Maybe two or three. Do you really think they haven't taken a sip in two or three days?"

Brennan grinned as he caught on. "They must've had a way to refill them. There must be something here, or something nearby."

"There." Grace pointed to a sink. Brennan hesitated, but followed her over. Could it really be that simple?

Grace turned the handle, and water began to flow. Brennan nearly burst out laughing. Grace cupped her hands and drank some, and Brennan quickly did the same. Soon, they had both drunk their fill. Now they had two full bottles of water – and a place to refill them.

"How's the wrist?" Grace asked quietly when they'd finished. Maybe she'd noticed him favoring it.

Brennan didn't answer right away. What was he supposed to say? If he admitted that it hurt – that he suspected it was broken – would the sponsors take pity and send him something to help it heal, or would they see it as a sign of weakness? If he said nothing, would they admire his stoicism, or would they simply assume he hadn't been badly hurt?

And what about Grace? Her wound might be just as bad. But he was fairly certain that, given time, they would both heal. The only question was whether or not they would get that time.

Brennan shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Could be worse."

Grace didn't seem to be buying it, but it was hard to argue with that. Of course it could be worse. They could be dead.

But they weren't. They weren't dead. Instead, they had killed. And, as horrible as it was, Brennan was surprised to find that he didn't feel _that_ bad about it. Sure, looking at the bodies made him feel sick to his stomach, but, once they were a ways down the hall, he felt better. Not good, but better.

And that terrified him more than the knife at his throat had.

* * *

**Daedem Luthra, 18  
****District One**

"Where _were _you?"

Daedem glared as Lynher finally slunk out of the shadows. "What were you _doing_? We needed you, and you weren't there! What did we have to do to get your attention?"

Lynher looked thoroughly baffled. "You told me to watch the door."

"Yes, I did. _Then_ we were attacked by a maniac with a club. Use your head, kid! Plans can _change_. You have to _think_!"

"And were _you _thinking?" Lynher demanded. "What were _you_ doing, risking our lives for – for what? We had supplies. We had food. We had water. We had weapons. We had everything we needed! And now nothing's changed, except that Francis is dead! Dead, Daedem. Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you?"

Of course it did. Francis had saved his life. He'd stayed at Daedem's side when he could have run, and it had gotten him killed. But telling Lynher that would only make things worse. The boy was already a nervous wreck.

So, instead, Daedem said nothing, turning his attention instead to his leg. It was badly bruised, but it didn't seem to be broken. Hesitantly, he tried to stand, then decided against it. Lynher offered him a hand up.

Only then did Daedem realize that Lynher's hands were stained red. What _had_ he been doing? Daedem's gaze circled the room until he caught a glimpse of a body near the other door. "Did you…?" He could hardly believe it. But was there any other explanation?

Lynher nodded weakly. "I … I didn't have a choice. He was getting away."

Daedem scoffed. "Of course you had a choice. And you made the right one. I didn't think you had it in you."

Lynher looked as if he was about to burst into tears. "Don't you understand? I never _wanted_ to have it in me. I never _wanted _to be a killer. I'm not like you!"

Daedem nearly burst out laughing. "Me? You think _I _wanted this any more than you? Trust me, there are about three or four thousand places I'd rather be than right here. You think I _wanted_ to be a killer? You think I _wanted_ to kill Henri?"

"Well, you certainly didn't hesitate."

"No, I didn't. And, when the moment came, neither did you. Because that's how you get through the Games, Lynher. You don't hesitate. You don't think. You don't take the time to reflect or consider things too closely, because if you do, you'll lose your mind. There are no good choices. But there are _always _choices." He shook his head. "And we made the right one."

"How can you say that? Francis is dead."

"Yes, he is. And so is the boy from Two. And the boy from Eight. And we have the cornucopia."

Lynher shook his head. "Wrong."

Daedem cocked an eyebrow. "Wrong?"

"Wrong. We may have it now, but we can't stay here."

"Why? After we worked so hard—"

"And how long do you think it'll be before someone has the same idea we did? How long before someone decides that maybe the two untrained boys at the cornucopia aren't much of a threat, when they consider what they have to gain? Let's take what we can and get out while we're still alive."

"No."

"No?"

Daedem shook his head. "No. I'm not going anywhere. We won it. We can defend it. The two of us can—"

"No. There is no us – not if it's going to get us both killed. You want to stay here and die? Fine. I'm leaving." With that, he swung a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his knife and Francis' dagger, and headed for the blue door.

For a moment, Daedem considered following him. That was probably what the boy was hoping for – that he would be able to goad Daedem into following. And it almost worked. But how could they just leave? After everything they'd just accomplished, to abandon it was foolish. Sure, it might save them from an attack in the short run, but, eventually, those attacks would come. They might as well face them here, where they would be well-supplied and well-fortified. Daedem shook his head as Lynher slipped out the door.

He wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

Five cannons.

Blythe and Elaine huddled closer together, their eyes still fixed on the map in front of them. "Five," Blythe said quietly. "Five cannons." Still, she couldn't quite believe it. Couldn't quite believe the deadly number. Because with five cannons and twenty-two possible tributes – since she and Elaine were obviously still alive – and with so many older, stronger tributes out there, the chances that one of those cannons had belonged to Brennan or Grace were…

No. No, she didn't want to think about the chances. She had to keep hoping. They didn't know anything for certain. Not yet.

But how long could they wait to find out?

"We shouldn't have let them go alone," Elaine said quietly, her voice growing frantic. "We shouldn't have split up. We should have gone with them – together. That way, at least we'd know."

Yes. Yes, they would know. But, if they'd stayed with Brennan and Grace, there was a chance that they might be dead now. A chance that one of those cannons could have been theirs. As it was, they were alive, and, according to the map, weren't in any danger at the moment. A dot that had been flashing from one end of the map to the other had finally stopped in the purple section, but didn't seem to be moving at the moment. And with five deaths in short succession, the Gamemakers weren't likely to choose now to release any more mutts. The audience would be satisfied for a while. They would be safe.

But not forever.

And what if Brennan and Grace didn't return? Without the faces in the sky every night, she and Elaine would have no way of knowing if they'd gotten lost, if they'd been hurt, or if they were dead. How long could they wait for the others to come back? How long before they would have to strike out on their own?

Because they still needed food. Still needed water. And that wouldn't wait.

Blythe glanced over the map again. Two dots in their room. One where they knew Henri's body was. A cluster of four dots seemed to be in the same place as the two had been – the two that Brennan had said they were going to check out if they didn't manage to find supplies elsewhere.

Did that mean they had found them? Or that someone else had? And, if Brennan and Grace _had_ found the two other tributes, were they alive or dead? If they were looting dead bodies, surely it wouldn't take them that long. But if they were alive … Did that mean they'd decided to attack?

Were they responsible for some of the cannons? Or were the cannons theirs?

But, even if some of the cannons had come from that cluster, it was clear that something else was going on. Four tributes. Five cannons. They couldn't all have come from that area.

And maybe none of them had. She couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be more dots around the cornucopia than there had been when they had left. Had there been a fight there? Maybe there were enough dots there to account for all the cannons. Maybe Brennan and Grace had found two dead bodies and decided to rest for the night.

Either way, standing around and staring at the map wasn't going to do any good. If there was a chance that Brennan and Grace had decided to rest, then maybe they should do the same. "You should get some sleep," Blythe offered at last. "I'll keep an eye on the map and wake you if anything looks like it's getting close."

Elaine nodded. She was clearly just as worried as Blythe was, but staying awake all night wasn't going to make things any better. For now, all they could do was wait and hope that their friends had been spared. That none of the five cannons had been theirs.

But could they really be that lucky?

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

Five cannons.

Ryzer grinned as she and Cassandra made their way back to the cornucopia. Five cannons. Five more tributes who had been released from their burden. And, if they were lucky, a number of those would have been at the cornucopia. Maybe all of them. Maybe there were only one or two left.

It was Cassandra's idea – to sneak back once the cannons died down, to see if any of them were injured and strike before they had a chance to recover. It was a good plan. A risky plan.

It was also a fun plan.

There was something exciting about not knowing – not knowing what, or who, they would find. Not knowing what to expect once they reached the cornucopia. Not knowing whether they would survive the next few minutes, whether they would ambush or be ambushed, whether they were predators or prey.

Maybe it didn't really matter.

They were all prey in the end, after all. Those who didn't fall prey to their fellow tributes were still prey to the Gamemakers. To the Capitol. To the president. They were all prey. The only difference was that some of the prey imagined themselves to be the predators.

Was it possible to be both?

Yes. Probably. Cats, after all, were both. They preyed on mice, only to fall prey to fiercer animals themselves. The tributes were no different. They preyed on each other, but, eventually, only one predator would remain.

Cassandra held a finger to her lips, calling for silence, and Ryzer realized she'd been giggling to herself. Immediately, she fell silent, and Cassandra nodded her thanks.

They were close. So close. A few more hallways, and their curiosity would be satisfied. A few more hallways, and they would know whether they were predators or prey – at least for today.

They snuck the rest of the way in silence, a silence that was only broken when they heard the sound of something clattering. The pair of them ducked low as they neared the cornucopia. Someone was still there.

And he wasn't happy.

From the sound of it, he was ranting at someone – maybe another tribute, or maybe himself. It was definitely a male voice – lower, probably one of the older ones. And there was something else in his voice – something unmistakable. He was in pain. He was frustrated and hurt … and alone?

Maybe they could end it for him.

Ryzer looked to Cassandra, who hesitated. The other girl they had attacked – the girl from Nine – she'd been on the run. They'd been able to catch her off guard. If they did this now, the boy in the room would almost certainly see them coming.

But did that mean they couldn't succeed?

There were two of them, after all. And he was injured. How badly, she couldn't tell, but it might be enough.

Cassandra nodded.

Ryzer had to fight to keep herself from shrieking with glee. This was it! This was their chance.

Without hesitation, she followed Cassandra through the door.

The boy saw them immediately, of course. There was no hiding this time. No skulking about in the shadows. But the boy seemed to be alone. He struggled to stand, and, finally managed it, propping himself up against the bar counter, trying to look as strong as possible.

But he was in no condition for a fight.

Still, they had to be careful. He had a hatchet – and access to more weapons behind him. Ryzer had a knife. Cassandra was unarmed.

_So don't get close._

The hatchet was no good at a distance. He wouldn't dare throw it and leave himself unarmed, even if it was only for a moment. As long as they stayed far enough away…

Without a word, the two of them circled – Ryzer to the left, Cassandra to the right. As soon as they boy realized what they were doing, panic filled his expression. But there was nothing he could do. He was alone. Surrounded. His face grew tense. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it!" He threw the hatchet.

Ryzer dodged. Cassandra charged. That was, of course, what they had been waiting for. For him to panic. Lose his cool. Cassandra was on him in a second. The boy struck back with his only weapon – his fists – but Cassandra had grabbed a chair leg in the midst of her charge. One whack to the head left him dazed, and soon Ryzer was at Cassandra's side, beaming. Cassandra nodded to Ryzer as she held the boy down.

"I believe it's your turn."

* * *

**Hazel Birnam  
****District Seven Mentor**

Eighteen tributes.

Hazel looked away as the boy's cannon sounded, his blood staining Ryzer's knife and coating her hands. Eighteen tributes dead. Eighteen tributes left. Half of their original number.

And all three of hers were dead.

Hazel buried her face in Glenn's shirt as he wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

She had no doubt that he meant it. That was the delicate balance among the victors – how to support their own tributes while still sharing sympathy for their fellow mentors when they lost theirs. So, yes, he was sorry that Jason and Saoirse were dead.

But not sorry that Grace was still alive.

She couldn't blame him, of course. If there positions were reversed, she would be doing the same thing. She would be apologizing. Offering a shoulder to cry on. But, at the end of the day, she would be grateful that her own tributes were still alive.

But their positions weren't reversed.

"Every year," Hazel muttered through tears. "Every year, I say to myself, _This is it. This is the year. We actually have a chance this time_. And every year this happens. Every. Single. One. And every time it does, I tell myself, _Next year. Next year will be the year I won't get my hopes up. The year I won't get attached, because I know we don't have a chance_. And then it just happens all over again."

Glenn nodded. He understood, of course – better than most. He'd been mentoring only a year less than she had, and had almost as little to show for it. He'd brought home a victor, yes, but only in name. In terms of mentoring, he was still as alone as he'd ever been.

"It never gets easier," Glenn agreed. "Maybe it should, but it doesn't."

Hazel shook her head. "No. It shouldn't. It shouldn't get easier to watch them die, to watch them kill. The moment it does – that's the moment you've already given up."

It would sometimes be easier to give up, though. Easier not to care. Because, in the end, none of it helped. It didn't help when Carolina and Lander came over to comfort her, to tell her there was nothing she could have done, that one alliance or the other was going to get lucky, and it happened to be the other one. It didn't help when Vester bought her a drink. It didn't help when Scarlet remarked that at least they'd put up a fight, while her own tribute had practically let the girls from Six walk all over him.

Hazel didn't bother pointing out that he'd been injured. That he'd already been through one fight and been lucky to come out alive. That didn't matter to Scarlet, and that, at least, she understood. It didn't matter, after all, how a tribute died. Whether they were the first to go or the last to fall, whether they went down fighting or were simply killed in their sleep, the end result was the same.

And there was nothing she could do to change that.

* * *

"_The blood is already on my hands. Right or wrong, I must follow the path to its end."_


	34. In the Mirror

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "president's list" poll are up on the blog. Most people seem to have a solid grasp of who two of the tributes are; opinions on the third are a bit more varied. You'll have a littel bit more to go on shortly...

New poll on my profile, this time asking who you _think _will be the final four. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want_ to see in the final four. But please **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll. And please do vote for _four_; there was at least one person last time who apparently thinks the president can't count to three. :)

* * *

**Day Three  
****In the Mirror**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

"That's two."

Helius glanced up as President Hyde joined him beside a large map of the arena. "Pardon?"

"Two out of the three so far. Niles and Fletcher. Nice work."

Helius shrugged. "Fletcher did most of the work himself. He took our deal and killed Niles, and attacking the cornucopia was his own suicidal idea. Maybe he realized that was a better death than what I had in mind."

Hyde cocked an eyebrow. "You had something in mind?"

"I always have something in mind. A lot of things, in fact. Not all of them end up being used, of course. Fletcher cheated his way out of this one. But there's still one name left."

Hyde smiled a little. "I take it you've got something special planned for her."

"Provided she doesn't get herself killed first, yes. Of course, if you like, I could arrange to have her protected until the surprise is ready…"

Hyde shrugged. "That's your area, Florum. Things seem to go more smoothly when I don't get involved. Not every troublemaker needs to die a spectacularly painful death; they just need to die. I'll admit, what happened to the Ichihara boy fifteen years ago was rather … satisfying. But it doesn't need to happen every year. Just often enough to remind them."

Helius nodded. "As you wish." Hyde turned to leave, but Helius' curiosity got the better of him. "If I may ask, what happened to the boy? The boy that Silas arranged a pardon for if Fletcher did as he was asked."

"Silas is handling that. Rumor has it that Carolina and Lander asked to take him in, but I don't know if there's any truth to that or not." He turned back to Helius. "Do you think that would be advisable?"

"I don't know why you would ask me," Helius admitted.

"They're your victors," Hyde pointed out. "In a way, you know them as well as anyone else. Do you think it would be safe to let them raise him, or would they be a bad influence?"

"I don't know why they would be. Jai did well under similar circumstances."

"Jai was a petty thief, not a rebel. And Harakuise has always been unquestionably loyal. Can we expect the same from Lander and Carolina?"

Helius nodded. "I have no reason to believe otherwise. They're clever, not rebellious. They've been saddled with a few rebellious tributes, but that's no fault of their own. And they managed to raise Mabel without incident – despite not officially being a couple."

Hyde smiled a little. "Any truth to the rumors they might eventually tie the knot?"

"I wouldn't know." Rumors about the victors' romantic lives were frequent and often contradictory, but, like a stopped clock, occasionally correct. Many had predicted Jade and Stellar's coming marriage years before they officially announced their betrothal in the wake of Felix's victory tour. When Felix announced his own engagement, no one was surprised. Carolina and Lander's relationship had long been a subject for the audience's speculation, and there were frequent rumors that Harakuise and Jai's relationship was more than simply a business partnership.

But then there were the less reliable rumors. Before Jade and Stellar were an item, many people had speculated that Jade was, in fact, in a long-distance relationship with Ivy. Until Arthrim's unfortunate heart attack a few months ago, District Seven's escort and his relationship with his only victor had been the subject of speculation. But so had Hazel and Glenn, Glenn and Tess, Crispin and Tobiah, Naomi and Misha, Naomi and Mags, and a number of other combinations that Helius didn't even want to think about.

At the end of the day, he didn't really care.

What the victors did once they left the arena, after all, wasn't really his concern. His job was to make sure that one of them came out of the arena alive, and that they gave the audience a good show. The aftermath wasn't really his responsibility.

He wasn't entirely sure whose responsibility it _was_, but it wasn't his.

Hyde shrugged. "Just curious. I suppose if the boy becomes a problem, we can always arrange to have him reaped."

Helius nodded. "True, but I prefer not to resort to that unless absolutely necessary. If the Games start to appear too rigged, the audience might get upset. We have to maintain some sense of fairness, of chance – even if it's all an illusion." He shrugged. "But after this year, it's not really my problem – or yours. Soon we'll get to sit back and watch our replacements work out the tough problems."

Hyde smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

"Make up your minds."

Corvo glared at the lights, which had just flickered off again, as if by doing so he was staring directly at the Gamemakers. Off. On. Now off again. And all in a short amount of time. There was no pattern, no consistency. Were the Gamemakers simply trying to mess with them, throw off their sense of time?

If so, it was working. Corvo had no idea how long they'd been in the arena, whether it was day or night, whether the food they were eating was breakfast or dinner.

Bakaari shrugged. "I wouldn't complain too much. That's six cannons in a row – and, as far as we know, nowhere near us. We've got food and supplies. We can hold out here for a while. All things considered, if a few annoying lights are the biggest of our worries, we've got quite a bit to be thankful for."

Corvo shook his head. Thankful? They didn't have _anything_ to be thankful for. They were in an arena full of people who were trying to kill them. It was ridiculous. It was absurd.

It was something Grace would have said.

Corvo was surprised to find himself smiling at the thought of his district partner. He hadn't seen either of them – Grace or Hogan – since the bloodbath. Had they gotten away? Were they still alive, somewhere out there in the arena? Or had two of the cannons been theirs?

And what of his own allies? Fletcher, Niles, Viktoria – Were they still alive? Were they already dead? Had they stayed together or split off, as he had?

Now that he thought about it, it was disturbing how little they knew about what was going on elsewhere. In a normal year, at least, they would be able to see faces in the sky at the end of the day. They would have some idea of which half of the tributes were gone, and which ones were left. Instead, they could only count the cannons and guess.

"Eighteen cannons," Bakaari continued optimistically. "And none of them have been ours. That's something, right?"

At last, Corvo realized what he was trying to do. He was playing optimistic for the cameras. Was it for the Capitol, or did he have someone waiting for him at home? Someone he was trying to stay hopeful for?

"I suppose it's something," Corvo agreed. But that was really the best he could offer. Chances were, the Capitol only saw him as the tribute who had stupidly allied with the Robber Prince and an anti-Capitol fanatic. And back home, he had no one. No one to be strong for.

And that was fine. He could be strong for himself. He was used to that. But being strong for himself didn't require that he put on a smile and pretend to be grateful that he hadn't been stabbed or skewered or bludgeoned to death in the last five minutes. He didn't need to giggle and pretend that everything would be all right when there was a very real possibility that one of those things would happen in the _next _five minutes.

What he did need was to get some sleep.

Without any way of telling time, he had no idea how long it had been since he'd had any rest, but he'd been awake since Bakaari had arrived, and had gotten very little sleep before that. But Bakaari looked exhausted, as well. "Why don't you get some rest," Corvo offered. "I'll keep watch for a while."

Bakaari hesitated – maybe still a bit reluctant to fully trust him – but, eventually, his exhaustion won out. "All right. Wake me in … well, a while, I guess." Corvo nodded, and Bakaari lay down nearby, using a pile of bandages as a pillow.

Soon, he was asleep.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

He would probably be safe for a while.

Stumbling a little in the dark, Dewan rolled another medical bed in front of the door. Staying in the train car was fine while he was awake, but he didn't want to rest in there. Anyone could accidentally stumble in and catch him at unawares. Here, at least, he could block the door and hope for the best.

And now was probably as good a time as any to get some rest. There had just been six cannons. The audience would be satisfied for the moment. Granted, none of the cannons had been his doing, but before that…

Natasha.

Dewan lay down on a bed across the room and closed his eyes. Part of him wished that she hadn't been the one who happened to fall into his trap. But, had their positions been reversed, he had no doubt she would have done the same thing. She would have killed him. Quickly. Willingly.

Eagerly?

No. No, not eagerly. He wasn't glad that she was dead. But he _was _glad that he was alive. And it had been him or her. Just like it had been him or Luke. He hadn't really had a choice.

Had he?

Had there been a third choice? Could he have let her walk away? Could he simply have run from Luke, rather than going for the knife, too?

But killing Luke had earned him the sponsors' attention. And, yes, Mortimer had only sent a rock, but that alone was proof that they were watching him. Because he was willing to kill – even his allies.

Allies. But they'd never really been allies. Not allies who could trust each other, at least. And now the other two were dead.

Dewan rolled over a little. What was he supposed to do now?

He could go back to the train car, of course. Wait for another tribute to happen along. But, if anything, Natasha's death had revealed a flaw in his plan. Lying in wait in the car was a good way to kill the other tributes, yes, but he still didn't have any food. Natasha hadn't been carrying any supplies. Other tributes who happened along might not have anything, either.

So maybe the next step was to find food.

As far as he could see, there were two options for that. The first, obviously, was the cornucopia. With eighteen cannons since the start of the Games, and no way of knowing whose they were – except for Luke and Natasha, of course – there was no way of telling who, if anyone, was still at the cornucopia. Maybe he could go and have a look – and then decide whether or not he could accomplish anything there.

The other option was the green section of the arena. From above, there appeared to be some sort of garden. He hadn't gotten a good look, but if it _was _a garden, there was probably something edible there. But by now, other tributes might have found it, as well. It could be just as guarded as the cornucopia.

Both options had risks. Both options had possibilities. But which was better?

Dewan sighed. He could wait until morning. If it wasn't morning already. Well, if it was, he could wait until the afternoon. He had time. He already had most of what he needed right here.

He could wait.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

He was already lost.

Lynher turned around again, frustrated, as he made his way through the hallways. He'd taken a pair of night vision glasses off the boy from Two before leaving the cornucopia, but those weren't doing anything to help him remember which way their alliance had come when they'd approached the cornucopia.

Because that was his plan – to go back where they had come from. Go back to the room where he knew there was running water and a safe place to sleep, and wait. How long, he wasn't sure, but he did know that he needed rest. _Real _rest that wasn't punctuated by periods of wondering whether or not his allies were going to get rid of him while they could.

Instead, he had left them.

Well, he had left Daedem. Francis was already dead. There wasn't much point in staying with a dead body. And he'd given Daedem the choice. He'd had the chance to come with him. He simply hadn't taken it. It had been his choice.

But that didn't make it any better. Didn't make him any less alone now than if he had simply run from the cornucopia at the start of the fighting, like he'd thought of doing more than once. Instead, he had stayed.

And he had killed.

No. No, he didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think about the boy from Eight, the way his eyes had looked at the end: frightened, but strangely satisfied. He didn't want to remember the blood gushing from the boy's throat as he'd pulled the knife out. He didn't want to remember the sight, the sounds, the blood flowing over his hands.

But he always would. He would remember it until the day he died – whether that day was tomorrow or in seventy or eighty years. He would always remember the first time he killed.

But a part of him also knew that, if he was going to get out of this arena alive, it couldn't be his last.

Eighteen tributes left. And they weren't simply going to kill each other and let him live. He would have to fight again. He would have to kill again.

He wondered if it would be easier or harder the next time.

Lynher shook his head, trying to keep himself awake. How long had it been since he'd rested? He had to find somewhere soon. Somewhere safe.

But why did it have to be the same place as before?

He didn't even care right now. Didn't care whether he found his way back to the room they'd been using before. There wasn't anything particularly special about it. Of course, if Daedem decided to join him, that would be the first place he'd look.

Lynher wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Maybe it didn't matter. He couldn't find it, anyway. The sheer number of hallways was beginning to disorient him. "I just want somewhere to sleep," he muttered, surprised to find he'd said it out loud.

As if in answer, a door opened. Lynher took a step back, hesitating. Were the Gamemakers trying to lead him somewhere? If they were, was it somewhere he would want to go?

And did he really have a choice?

Reluctantly, Lynher stepped through the door. As it closed behind him, another opened in front of him. A few doors later, he found himself standing in a room.

A room with two bodies.

Lynher nearly jumped when he saw them, but, judging from the amount of blood on the floor, they were already dead. The door slid shut behind him, but another door led out of the room, if he wanted to leave.

Instead, Lynher closed the door, shoved one of the beds in front of it, and collapsed onto the other. He was too tired to worry about the bodies. Too tired to be concerned with the dead.

He was just glad he wasn't one of them.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She was just glad none of the cannons had been theirs.

Asteria turned her attention back to the mutt tentacle, which was just as bad the second time around, but still far better than starving to death. And if a bad-tasting mutt was their biggest problem, then they didn't have much to complain about. Because, since they'd fought the mutt, there had been eight cannons.

And none of them had been hers. Or Kinley's, Barclay's, or Mercury's. They had all been spared so far.

"Eighteen," Kinley muttered, as if she was thinking the same thing. "Eighteen dead. And we're still here."

"All of us," Barclay agreed. "I'd say that's pretty good."

"Don't jinx it," Mercury muttered sullenly.

"What's the matter?" Barclay asked, genuinely confused by her bad mood. "We passed their test, remember? We killed the mutt."

Mercury shook her head. "_You _killed the mutt. You two. You two passed the test. You two got sponsor gifts. What did Asteria and I do? We just stood there."

Asteria looked away. She knew Mercury was being generous. Asteria hadn't just stood there. She had tried to run. At the first sign of trouble, she had been ready to run away and abandon her allies.

Kinley shook her head. "There was nothing you _could_ have done. You were trapped. I just got lucky; it happened to go for me last."

Mercury nodded agreeably and dropped the topic, but Asteria could tell it was still bothering her. Yes, they had been trapped, but so had Barclay. When Kinley had brought back two pieces of piping, she'd kept one for herself and given one to Barclay. Was it simply because he was physically the strongest? Or was it because she trusted him more?

Asteria picked at her piece of mutt tentacle. She was probably getting worried over nothing. But wasn't it better to worry too much than not enough? Wasn't it better to be too cautious, too careful, rather than to let her guard down?

Sure, they were a team now. They acted like a team. They had even fought like a team – to some degree. But teams didn't last in the arena – not forever. Alliances fell. Agreements were broken. It was only a matter of time.

Eventually, someone would have to make the first move.

She didn't want it to be her. Barclay, Kinley, Mercury – they had been so kind. So welcoming. She couldn't imagine turning on them. Couldn't imagine killing them.

But she _could _imagine leaving them.

She had almost done it, after all. She had almost left. Almost run away. And, as guilty as she felt about it, she knew that if it happened again, she would do the same thing. She would run. Maybe she wouldn't turn on her allies, but that didn't mean she would go down with them when the time came. And, in the end, there was only one certainty in the Games:

That time would eventually come.

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18  
****District Four**

She couldn't imagine leaving them.

Kinley glanced around the room at her friends. She couldn't see much in the dim light from the machinery, but what she could see was reassuring. Barclay had an arm around Mercury's shoulders, and even Asteria had scooted closer, abandoning the place she'd taken up in the corner almost immediately after the mutt had attacked. They'd rested a bit. Eaten supper – or breakfast, or whatever meal it was.

Almost like at home.

Almost. Home had better food and a warm bed. Home didn't have giant, whirring machinery reminding them that, no matter how safe they felt, a few inches of wall was all that stood between them and the darkness outside. Home didn't have cannons to mark the time, counting down the lives of those around them.

And home, of course, didn't have fourteen other tributes trying to kill her.

Fourteen. It was surprising how quickly she'd arrived at that number. She hadn't even thought to include her allies in that count. Of course, in the Games, nothing was permanent. No alliance lasted forever. But, even in the worst-case scenario, she couldn't imagine any of her allies turning on her.

Running, yes. She would have to have been blind to miss it earlier; Asteria had tried to run. Not that Kinley could really blame her. The thought had crossed her mind, as well. She'd thought about running, but she couldn't. She simply couldn't have left them.

But would they have done the same for her?

Asteria had tried to run. Mercury might have done the same, if she'd gotten the chance. But, for the life of her, she couldn't picture Barclay running. Couldn't picture him abandoning them.

Maybe it was because they were the oldest. Maybe it was their responsibility – their duty, perhaps – to protect the younger ones.

And so far, it seemed to have worked. If she'd run, after all, the mutt might have killed all three of the others, and then where would she be? Alone, weaponless, and without any sort of supplies or even a mutt to eat. Instead, she had a knife, and they had food – plenty to last a while, if they were careful.

Kinley smiled a little. The one piece of advice Mags had drilled into their heads was that, eventually, they would have to simply trust their instincts. She had trusted hers, and it had paid off – with food and with sponsors. They'd passed the first test.

But that didn't mean she was in a hurry for the next one.

There was no rush – not really. With the number of cannons that had gone off recently, it was safe to assume that something interesting was happening elsewhere. The Gamemakers would probably leave them alone for a while. They should take that opportunity to rest, to prepare as much as they could.

Because this wouldn't last forever – this sense of security, almost safety. Eventually, the audience would grow bored. They would have to leave. They would have to fight.

And, for the first time, Kinley felt ready.

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

"You should get some sleep."

Dennar shook his head as Enzo made the suggestion once more. The other two had already taken turns resting while the other watched. But he couldn't. How could he? The last time he had fallen asleep…

No. No, he wouldn't let that happen again. Not while he was alive.

But, to satisfy the other two, he lay down and pretended. Pretended that, with a little rest, everything would be fine. That, when he woke up, his pain, his regret, would be gone. That he would no longer have blood on his hands.

That he would no longer be a murderer.

And maybe that was the reason – the real reason – that he didn't want to sleep. Because the boy's face – his eyes wide with terror and pain – might follow him there. And, when he woke, he would have to face himself again. Face what he had done.

Maybe it would be better, then, to sleep forever. Sleep without dreaming. Sleep without worry or care, without the burden of having to wake again. That would be simpler. Easier. Dennar closed his eyes at last, almost wishing for that sleep to claim him.

And it would. But not yet. He had a job to do first. He had taken a life. The reasonable way to make up for it – no, the _only _way to make up for it – was by saving one. One of their group would leave the arena alive.

And it wouldn't be him.

Because he knew now – knew that he would never be able to live with himself. Dennar clenched his fists. He had thought he could do this. Thought he could fight, kill, and be able to go on with his life afterwards. But he couldn't. He couldn't do this. He couldn't live with himself.

So he wouldn't. He would use whatever time he had left to protect his allies. And then, when the time came, he would die. And they would live. It was so simple, now that he thought about it. So easy.

So much easier than living.

Dennar let out a sigh and pretended to sleep. Tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. In and out. Breathing. He was still breathing.

But the other boy wasn't.

Dennar held back a sob. Why couldn't he forget? Just for a moment. Just one moment where the boy's face didn't fill his thoughts, one moment when he could forget what he had become. Just one.

Dennar wept silently in the dark. That moment would never come. He would never be free again. He was a slave – a slave to the memory of that moment, a slave to what he had become, what the Gamemakers had made him.

He would never sleep well again.

* * *

**Bakaari Reeves, 17  
****District Eleven**

"Sleep well?"

Bakaari rolled over as Corvo gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Actually, yeah," he mumbled, still a bit sleepy. He hadn't expected to sleep well in the arena, especially after losing Jazz. But, to his surprise, he had fallen asleep quickly, and slept quite soundly with Corvo on watch. For some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he trusted the other boy.

Maybe it made some sense. If Corvo had wanted him dead, he could have fought him. Or simply let him walk away. Instead, he'd chosen to share his food, his supplies, his friendship, for no other reason – as far as Bakaari could tell – than that he was lonely and wanted someone with him as badly as Bakaari did.

"Sorry to wake you," Corvo apologized, "but it's been a few hours – I think – and you said to—"

Bakaari nodded. The other boy looked like he was about to fall asleep himself. "It's fine. Really. Get some rest; I'll keep watch."

Corvo smiled gratefully, and the two traded places. Bakaari stood up, stretching a little, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. After pacing a little, he sat down again. Probably best to conserve their energy.

But they couldn't conserve it forever.

That wasn't how the Games worked. Sure, they were well-supplied here. They had food, water, supplies, everything they could want. But that wouldn't last; the Gamemakers would see to that. Eventually, someone would find them. Or mutts would be sent to drive them elsewhere. They couldn't just sit here and do nothing. Not for long.

But what else were they supposed to do? They had supplies, yes, but no weapons. And, even if they did, the thought of going out and looking for tributes to kill … No, he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Not yet. They could wait a while. Maybe if they waited long enough, the Gamemakers would drive a few tributes in their direction, instead of driving them elsewhere. And he had an easier time picturing that – killing someone in defense of their own lives – than picturing the two of them actively seeking out a fight.

And, even then, would he and Corvo be able to kill a tribute who came their way? Corvo had been given the opportunity earlier, after all, when Bakaari had stumbled in. Instead of fighting, he had offered an alliance. What was to stop him from doing the same again?

What if he simply didn't want to fight?

Bakaari couldn't exactly blame him for that, of course. He hadn't wanted to fight, either. He could have attacked Corvo, but he hadn't. He could have walked away, but he hadn't done that, either. He had chosen to trust a complete stranger rather than fight. So if another tribute came along, what was to stop _him_ from doing the same thing again?

And what would the Gamemakers do to them then?

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

She just wished she knew.

Simone kept running, trying to put as much distance between herself and the cornucopia as she could. At first, the walls around her had glowed green. Then they had turned grey. Now they were brown. Six cannons had sounded since she fled the cornucopia. How long had it been? An hour? More? She had stopped a few times to rest, but only briefly. She had to keep moving.

She had to keep running.

Six cannons. Had one of them been Adrian's? She knew she shouldn't care. He would have to die eventually. Why not now? And, in the end, it wasn't the thought that he might be dead that bothered her. It was the fact that she didn't _know_. There was no way to know for sure whether he was dead or not.

A part of her had hoped, as she'd run, that he would follow. That he would have the sense to run, too. The other group was larger – and, for all they knew, there were more of them coming. But that was her fault. Her fault that they'd been outnumbered. If Hogan and Calissa had been with them…

But they were dead. And, in all likelihood, so was Adrian. So there was no point in fretting about it. No use wondering what might have happened if she had spared them. She was still alive, after all. That was what mattered.

That was _all_ that mattered.

No, there was something else. Something that mattered. Something very important. In her panic, she hadn't had the time to grab any supplies from the cornucopia. She had the knife and dagger she'd been using to fight, but nothing else. No food. No water. And she would need both.

"Now would be a good time, Vester," she muttered, hoping he would hear. Hoping that killing one ally, attacking a second, and leaving the third to be killed was worth _something_ as far as sponsors were concerned. Maybe they could send water. Or at least point her in the right direction. She'd been running for what felt like hours and hadn't stumbled upon anything useful. If they could just give her a hint…

Simone shook her head. Vester was probably drunk. Probably wasn't even paying attention. And, if he was, he probably wasn't coherent enough to put the pieces together. "Water," she said at last, spelling it out for him. Food was important, of course, but water was more urgent. "I just want to find some water."

As if in answer, a door opened.

Simone stared, uncertain. What was this supposed to mean? Had the Gamemakers decided that Vester wasn't going to be any use and intervened themselves? Or were they using her desperation to lure her into a trap?

Simone hesitated. But the thought that maybe, somewhere on the other side of the door, were the supplies she needed to live … it was too tempting. She stepped through the door and into a passageway. Immediately, the door slid shut behind her.

It was pitch black, but the night vision goggles helped a little. There wasn't much to see, though. Just a tunnel. One direction. She had no choice now. She had to go forwards.

So she did. She plunged on in the dark, one door opening, then another – each time sliding shut behind her. Finally, one last door slid silently open, and she found herself staring into a room.

It was full of boxes.

And, perhaps twenty feet in front of her, facing the other direction, was a boy.

Simone froze. But the boy – one of the boys from Eleven, she was pretty sure – didn't seem to notice her. Was he asleep? Had he dozed off a little? Or was he simply not paying attention?

The door slid shut behind her.

Simone bit her tongue. There was another door. But it was on the other side of the room. She would have to get past the boy first.

She would have to kill him.

Silently, Simone gripped her dagger, tucking the knife into one of her pockets. The dagger would be better. Quicker. She took one step forward. Then another. Only when she was within arm's reach did the boy turn.

And he screamed.

But that was all he had time to do. Immediately, Simone clapped her hand over his mouth and slid the dagger across his throat. The cannon sounded. Someone else screamed.

Only then did she see the other boy.

It was the boy from Ten. Hogan's district partner. He was staring, shocked but still bleary-eyed, at his ally's lifeless body. Panicked, Simone bolted for the door. The boy didn't follow. Maybe he was too busy mourning his ally. Maybe he wasn't quite awake enough yet to fully understand what had happened. Maybe he didn't think that he would win a fight; he seemed to be unarmed, after all, while she had a perfectly good dagger. Maybe she'd simply gotten lucky.

But how long would that luck hold?

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

_Boom._

Blythe nearly jumped as the sound of the cannon woke her. Elaine was still staring at the map. Blythe rubbed her eyes. "Anything?"

Elaine nodded a little. "Two dots. They look like they're coming this way. It might be Brennan and Grace, but—"

"—but it might not be," Blythe finished. She joined Elaine by the map. The dots were, indeed, moving their way – and quickly. How long did they have? If it _was_ Brennan and Grace, of course, they had nothing to be afraid of. But if it wasn't… "What should we do?"

Elaine thought for a moment. "Close the door. Block it with something. That'll buy us a little time, if it's someone else – time for them to figure out how to get through. And if it's Brennan and Grace, we let them in."

Simple enough. But how would they know? Would they recognize their allies' voices well enough? She hoped so. It wasn't a great plan, but it was the best one they had.

As quickly as they could, the two of them closed the door and piled as much debris as they could in front of it – a few chairs, a few bits of metal lying around. It wasn't much, but it was the best they could do.

The two dots stopped right outside the door.

"Blythe?" She was pretty sure it was Brennan's voice. Pretty sure. But what if it wasn't? Did she want to answer? Did she want to give away that there were people inside, just in case it wasn't her ally?

Blythe glanced at Elaine, who was looking to her for a decision, hoping that, as Brennan's district partner, she'd be able to pick out his voice from all the tributes who _could _be on the other side. And she was pretty sure.

Pretty sure.

"Blythe? Elaine?" A girl's voice this time. Grace's? It was hard to tell. The voice was breathy and tired, but it could be Grace's.

Probably.

Almost certainly.

Almost.

Blythe clenched her fists. There had to be _some_ way to tell for sure. Something that only Brennan would recognize. Something only he would know.

Blythe took a few steps closer to the door. "Who are you?"

"It's Grace and Brennan!" The girl's voice again, getting annoyed. "You know who we are."

Blythe took a step closer and repeated the question. "Who are you?"

Silence for a moment. But then the answer came. The answer she had hoped he would give. The answer he'd given when Silas had asked them on the train.

"I'm just a kid from District Twelve."

But, as they unblocked the door and it finally swung open, Blythe could see that wasn't true anymore. The kid from District Twelve had never looked this tired, this worn out. She had never been able to picture the kid from District Twelve with blood on his hands, staining his shirt, his leg bleeding and bandaged.

The kid from District Twelve wasn't a killer.

Brennan and Grace quickly spread out the contents of the packs they had brought with them. Food. Water. A knife. Clearly, their endeavors had been more successful than Blythe and Elaine's.

But what had it cost them in return?

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

They couldn't stay here.

Cassandra glanced around at the bounty that surrounded them. Food. Supplies. Weapons. Everything they could want, all piled here in nice, neat little stacks. All here for the taking.

But they couldn't stay. The bodies piled around them were proof of that. If the Careers couldn't hold the cornucopia, if the boy from One couldn't hold the cornucopia, then why would she and Ryzer be able to hold it? Yes, they had killed two tributes. But they'd caught one off-guard, and the other had already been badly injured. They weren't fighters.

They were vultures.

Vultures, preying off the weak and the injured. Maybe it wasn't the best image to have, but, so far, it had been successful. Nineteen cannons, and here they were. Alive. Uninjured. And they now had access to everything they needed.

But they had to leave.

"Ryzer," Cassandra said at last, calling her ally away from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, studying the dead bodies. "We can't stay here. We should take what we can and leave."

Ryzer sprang to her feet immediately, almost like a cat. "_We should leave, Cassandra's right – then we will not have to fight._"

Cassandra smiled a little. Good. She'd been worried that Ryzer might not want to leave, but her ally had more sense than she gave her credit for sometimes. They wouldn't win a fight – not a fair one, not one where they didn't have something already working to their advantage. They couldn't stay here and defend the cornucopia.

They wouldn't make the same mistake the boy had.

Quickly, the two of them packed a pair of backpacks with as much food and water as they could find. Ryzer donned a pair of night vision glasses they'd found in the supplies. Cassandra stuffed some knives into the backpack – as many as she had room for. She couldn't use all of them at once, of course, but the more they took, the fewer would remain for anyone who happened to come after them.

So she chose a dagger, as well, and Ryzer chose a small, curved blade – a sickle of some sort, but smaller. Easy to carry. Easy to use.

Now they just needed somewhere to go.

Maybe back where they had found that girl – the redhead from Three. If she'd been hiding there, maybe there was a reason. It was relatively close to the cornucopia – close enough to come back and steal a little more if they happened to run out of something, maybe close enough to keep an eye out for other tributes trying to do the same. Yes. Yes, that would be good.

Cassandra led the way, out of the room and down the hall. A hall that was dead silent except for Ryzer's occasional burst of giggling. Cassandra smiled a little, wondering what Vernon thought of them now. He hadn't given them a second glance on the way to the Capitol or during training. Now they had two kills. They had supplies and weapons. And they had a plan.

Maybe they didn't need his help, after all.

* * *

**Vernon Barrow  
****District Six Mentor**

"Vultures."

Vernon turned his glass in his hand. The girls weren't tributes; they were vultures. Swooping in on their already-wounded prey, claiming the kill as their own even though it wouldn't have been possible without those who had injured the prey in the first place. They wouldn't last two seconds in a real fight.

But what if they didn't have to?

Vernon looked around the room. How many of his fellow victors had been the strongest in their arena – or even close? The Careers, yes – Jade, Stellar, Scarlet, Mortimer, Naomi. A few others had relied on sheer brute force, as well – himself included. Vester. Ivy. But the others – none of them had been the strongest. And a few had been outright weak – physically, at least. Hazel. Harakuise. Miriam. And yet here they were, alongside the others.

Alongside him.

"Not bad."

Vernon looked up, surprised, to see Ivy sitting beside him, nursing her own drink. "It's weird, isn't it," she sighed. "Who survives, who dies, and when. If you'd told me a week ago that _Lynher_ would be the one still alive out of those three, I would have laughed. But Jazz … and now Bakaari … and he's still alive." She took a drink. "Go figure."

Vernon nodded. "True, you didn't expect it. But did it ever really … _matter _to you which one would make it the farthest? Which one had the best chance? Do you have any idea—"

"No," Ivy finished for him. "No, I can't begin to imagine how much you must have wanted Luke to be the one to make it out. How much it hurts that he was the first of the three to die, that the other two are still alive while your son is gone. But, Vernon … he _is_ gone. And they're still here. And, as much as you don't like them … wouldn't a victor you don't like be better than none at all?"

Vernon sighed. "You're not saying anything I haven't already told myself. And the answer's yes, of course. When the times comes, I'll help them, because they're District Six's only chance now. I don't have to like it, but … if I can bring one of them home, at least I won't be alone." He shrugged. "But, right now, they've got everything they need. They've got food, water, weapons. They're doing just fine." He shook his head.

"Maybe they don't need my help, after all."

* * *

"_How much more before I can look in the mirror and not see myself? Because I keep looking, and I'm always there. And right now, I don't want to see me."_


	35. The Third Principle

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final four" poll if you haven't already.

Also, a shout-out to _mikitty bast_ and S_overeign2_, who have open SYOTs and need some more tributes. Tribute-makers, send some their way!

* * *

**Day Three  
****The Third Principle**

* * *

**Lander Katz  
****District Eight Mentor**

"What do you want?" Carolina mumbled.

Lander cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Carolina glanced away from the screen. "It's something Fletcher told me. When I asked how he convinced so many people to join his alliance, he told me that he asked them what they wanted. I think the Gamemakers are doing the same thing."

"How so?"

"Think about it. Shilo wanted a way out of the station. She didn't know it was a station, of course, and the Gamemakers used that. But they did exactly what she asked – they let her out. Lynher says he just wants a place to sleep, and suddenly a passageway leads him somewhere safe. Simone says she wants water, and what happens?"

"She gets led to a room with whole boxes full of supplies," Lander realized.

"Exactly. And the shuttle – it went exactly where Dewan told it to go."

"So you think it would do that for anyone?"

"Probably. Maybe it's just that no one else has tried."

Lander nodded. "Clever. Not exactly helpful, since the only tribute we've got left already has access to plenty of food and water. Still clever, though." He thought for a moment. "Wonder what would happen if a tribute said they wanted weapons. Would weapons start to appear out of nowhere?"

Carolina shook her head. "I doubt it. But they could open a passageway that leads back to the cornucopia. There's no one there now, after all."

Lander smirked. "You'd make a good Gamemaker, you know."

Carolina's face darkened. "Don't say things like that."

"I only meant—"

"I know what you meant. My own time in the arena, fifteen years of mentoring – yeah, I've learned to think like them. That's what we _do_. That's the only way we can help our tributes – by thinking ahead, considering what the Gamemakers might do next."

"And I bet you've already worked out why it's a bad idea for the tributes to start asking for things."

"Of course. Shilo got sucked out into space. Sure, Lynher's safe for now, but the Gamemakers led him to the exact spot where Brennan and Grace now know there's a source of water. Simone knows where supplies are, but now she's killed Corvo's ally – he won't just let that go."

"And Dewan?"

"Has gotten lucky. It's only a matter of time before that shuttle of his drops him off in the middle of a fight. Anything clever in the Games has a way of backfiring."

"Says the victor who thought it would be a clever idea to use a baby mutt to lure the parents into a trap."

Carolina grimaced. "Touché. But that's exactly what I meant – it backfired spectacularly, and it got both my allies killed. All because I forgot who was really in control. Being clever is fine, but thinking you can outsmart the Gamemakers – or forgetting that they're there – isn't. We can't start thinking that the arena is magically granting tributes' wishes. Even if those are the rules the Gamemakers are playing by at the moment, that could change. And, even if it doesn't, _they're _in control of _how_ those wishes are granted."

Lander clapped Carolina on the back. "I was wrong. You wouldn't be a good Gamemaker."

Carolina gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. "That's more like it."

Lander dodged the next punch he already knew would be coming.

"You'd be a great one."

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

She had to be patient.

Simone paced back and forth in a small room a few hallways away from the storage bay where the boy from Ten was probably still mourning his ally. He hadn't chased her. Hadn't shouted after her or vowed revenge. But he didn't need to. She knew. Given the chance, he would kill her.

Or she would kill him.

Maybe she should have taken her chances right away. Attacked him immediately, while he was still disoriented. But, even with that advantage, she wasn't sure that was a fight she would win. Calissa had been asleep, after all, but, once she'd woken up, she'd nearly killed Simone before Adrian had intervened. Simone didn't have any delusions about her physical abilities; any fight was a risk.

And it was a risk she didn't have to take – not yet, at least. She still had time. She wasn't desperate. Not yet. She and Adrian had eaten only a few hours before the others had attacked the cornucopia. She could wait a while before hunger would catch up with her.

Sooner or later, the boy would make a mistake. He'd been asleep when she'd killed his ally, but there was no way of knowing how long he'd been asleep before that. Maybe a few hours, maybe a few minutes. Sooner or later, he would need to rest.

Or he would come after her. That was the other possibility, of course. With the amount of supplies he had, he could stay holed up for a good long while, but she might have just drawn him out. If he came after her in an attempt to avenge his ally … What then?

Simone shook her head. Sure, he could try to find her, but, since he hadn't given chase immediately, he had no way of knowing where she was. She hadn't gone far, but, for all he knew, she was on the other side of the building. If he left to chase after her, all the better; she'd have free access to his supplies without the bother of a fight.

And if he came back, she would be ready.

She just had to be patient a little while longer. One way or the other, something would happen. And she could be prepared when it did, but there was really nothing she could do to make it come any faster.

Simone sat down in a corner facing the door. If he came, she would be ready. If he didn't, she could wait. She had time. Plenty of time.

Maybe time was all she had left.

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

He'd let it happen again.

Corvo knelt by Bakaari's body, fists clenched tightly, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. After his parents' death, he'd sworn never to let this happen again. Never again would he lose someone, especially when there was something he could have done to stop it.

But had there been anything? Could he have done anything to stop it? He'd been fast asleep; it was Bakaari's scream that had woken him, but, by then, it had been too late. The cannon had sounded mere seconds afterwards. Not enough time to do anything.

Anything except avenge him.

And now it was too late for even that. The girl had run. She hadn't even taken any supplies, which was surely what she had come for. She could have attacked him, too, but, instead, she'd fled.

Coward.

It would have been better if she had stayed. If they had fought. Then, at least, it would be over, one way or the other. He would have his revenge, or he would be dead.

Now he would have to wait.

She would come back. She would have to. She had come for supplies, and she had taken nothing. Eventually, she would have to come back for them.

And then he would kill her.

Corvo clenched his fists a little harder. Odd as it was, maybe he should be grateful. Until now, he'd simply sat here in this room, stocked with supplies, without any reason to act. Without any purpose. She had given him one. She had given him something to fight for.

He was only sorry it had cost Bakaari's life.

Corvo shook his head as he gently closed Bakaari's eyes. He had barely known the boy. He didn't really know anything about him, except his name. Did he have a family who was watching? Someone who cared about him?

Maybe there was something he could do for them.

Corvo stood up slowly, knowing the cameras were trained on him. "She'll pay for this," he said quietly. "If it's the last thing I do … she'll pay."

And it might very well be the last thing he did. She was armed, after all. All he had was a few pieces of piping and a lot of boxes. She was from District Two. One of the Careers, he was pretty sure – one of the ones who'd had at least a little training.

And yet she hadn't stayed. She hadn't fought. She had been afraid to take him on. So why should he be afraid of her? If she hadn't wanted to fight him, then maybe she was injured. Maybe she was weak from lack of food.

Or maybe she wasn't as trained as she'd pretended to be.

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14  
****District One**

They were still asleep.

Elaine watched as Brennan rolled over and opened his eyes. Grace was still sleeping soundly. They had slept through a cannon without flinching.

Slowly, Brennan sat up. Blythe was at her district partner's side in an instant with one of the water bottles. Brennan drank gratefully, but Elaine couldn't help but notice that he was avoiding using his right hand to do so. Whatever had happened, it had been bad.

So far, the two hadn't said a word about what _had _happened. They'd come in, delivered the two bags of supplies, and simply collapsed together in a corner, exhausted. She and Blythe had let them sleep, figuring they needed it.

But, sooner or later, they deserved some answers.

Elaine kept her distance. Maybe it wasn't her place to ask. Maybe they should simply be grateful for the supplies. But she wanted to know. It had been nagging at her, ever since their two allies had come back.

She wanted to know what those supplies had cost them.

But it was Blythe who asked, her voice low and gentle. Asking, almost begging her district partner to share what he had been through. "Brennan … what happened?"

Brennan took another sip of water. "We were on our way back from looking for supplies. We hadn't found anything, but the lights had gone off, so we figured … Well, we figured we could come back, then go out and have another look later. No unnecessary risks, right?"

Blythe nodded. "Exactly what you told us."

"Exactly. We were passing by a room, and I … I thought I heard something inside. Some sort of running water. We decided to check it out, and … Well, we were ambushed. The pair from Seven – they just appeared out of nowhere. It must have been a trap. I managed to grab the girl's knife, and…"

"You killed her," Blythe finished.

Brennan nodded. "It was her or me. I had to. But the boy attacked me, and Grace – she saved my life. Pulled him off, choked him to death."

Blythe wrapped her arms around Brennan. "We were so worried."

"I know. But we're all right. We're fine. And we've got supplies. And we know where there's water. There's a sink in the room, with running water. That must have been what I heard – one of them filling their water bottles. Trying to lure us in."

Blythe shook her head. "What kind of person would do that?"

Brennan didn't have an answer for that. Slowly, he got up and wandered over to look at the map. Blythe stayed by Grace's side, lying down next to her. Soon, she was asleep.

Elaine slowly made her way over to the map to join Brennan. "A person wouldn't do that," she said quietly. "But a tribute would. Now … What really happened?"

Brennan glanced up, startled. "What?"

Elaine shook her head. "You may have her fooled, but if you wanted to tell a story like that convincingly, you should have picked a different district. I was watching the pair from Seven during training. That's not the sort of move they would make – not when they already had everything they needed. What you just described – it's the sort of strategy a desperate tribute would use. Someone who needed to find food to bring back to their allies – no matter the cost." She looked up at Brennan. "You made the first move. _You _attacked _them_."

Brennan looked away. "Yes."

"But you didn't want to tell Blythe, because you were afraid of what she would think of you."

"Yes."

Elaine shook her head. "Eventually, you won't be able to protect her from what has to happen. I'll keep your secret, but I want something in return."

"What do you want?"

"Next time – don't protect me. I've spent my whole life being told I can't do this, can't do that. I can't train to be a peacekeeper like my brother. My parents wouldn't let me train for the Games. All my life, they've tried to protect me. Please don't do that to me – not again. The next time you plan something like this … don't hold me back."

Brennan stared for a moment. But then he nodded. "All right. Next time … you're in."

Elaine smiled. "Thank you."

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

They couldn't sit around eating mutt forever.

Barclay leaned back against the wall, watching his allies. It wasn't that the mutt was terrible. Food was food, after all, and he'd never been a very picky eater. But, even though the mutt was filling, and even though it was rather slimy, they still didn't have any water. And it was only a matter of time before they would have to leave and find some.

They had originally planned to wait until the lights came on again before venturing out again. But, if Asteria's theory about the lights was true – and, so far, it seemed spot-on – they would have to wait for two more cannons before that would happen. And there was no telling how long that would be.

There wasn't even any way of telling how long it had been since the last cannon had sounded. A few hours, maybe? How long would it be until the next one? Hours? A day?

Could they wait that long?

Nobody had started to complain yet, but none of them really seemed like the complaining sort. They all knew they would need water eventually, but maybe they would rather play it safe here for a while.

But, eventually, they would have to stop playing it safe.

"What do you think, Barclay?" Kinley asked, snapping him back to the moment. How long had she been talking to him? Maybe their lack of water was beginning to affect them more than he'd thought.

"Huh?" Barclay asked, hoping he hadn't missed an entire conversation.

Kinley smiled patiently. "I was asking what everyone thought about going to look for water. I know it's still dark, but we could head back to the green section, and at least there would be some light. We could have a look around, and, if we don't find anything, we could come back. We're probably one of the biggest groups left – if not the biggest. Anyone who sees us probably wouldn't want to attack us."

"Mutts would," Asteria pointed out. "It certainly didn't stop them before."

"True, but we already killed a mutt," Kinley pointed out. "I don't think the Gamemakers would send another one after us so soon. What do you think, Barclay?"

So Kinley wanted to go. Asteria didn't. "What did you say, Mercury?"

Mercury shook her head. "I just said we shouldn't split up. If we're going to go, we should all go. If we're going to stay, we should all stay. Like Kinley said, we're one of the bigger groups, so we're a lot safer together."

So it was one for, one against, and one trying to stay out of an argument. The deciding vote was his. Barclay glanced at Kinley, who met his gaze, begging him to back her up. Maybe she was getting restless. Maybe she wanted to do something. Or maybe she was worried about finding water, same as him.

And she was probably right.

"I'm with Kinley," Barclay agreed. "We've almost finished off the mutt, so there's not a lot for us here. We can take the two gas masks we found in the other room, just in case. That way, if we find something, we can either stay there or bring it back here. If we don't find anything … well, we just come back here. No harm done, right?"

No harm done. As long as they didn't run into anyone. As long as no one attacked them. Kinley had a knife, and he had a piece of piping, but that was it. If they ran into any real trouble…

Barclay stood up and picked up a few more pieces of piping that were lying around the room, then handed one to each of his allies. "There. Now we're ready for a real fight."

They weren't. But at least they _looked _a bit more ready. And maybe that would be enough to scare off any tributes who might think about attacking them. Because, once it came down to it, he would rather scare them off than actually fight them. If they could find water without having to fight for it, that would be best.

But at least now they were prepared for worse.

* * *

**Kinley Arnoult, 18  
****District Four**

They were prepared for the worst.

Kinley gripped her piece of piping in one hand and her knife in the other as she led the way through the halls. Mercury and Asteria followed, and Barclay brought up the rear, both gas masks slung over his back. They certainly looked ready. They looked intimidating.

But, once it came down to it, were they really ready to fight? Were they ready to kill?

Maybe no one was ever really ready – ready to take a life. And part of her still hoped that they wouldn't have to. That the sight of the four of them would be enough to scare any other tributes away.

But she also knew they couldn't count on that.

She wasn't sure how long they'd been in the arena, but it had been at least a few days. Some of the tributes would be desperate. Ready to try anything. Maybe even ready to attack a group of four well-armed tributes, if they thought there was something to gain.

But what would there be to gain? They didn't have anything worth taking – not really. A knife, a few pieces of piping, and two gas masks – that was all they were carrying with them. Not really anything worth fighting over.

Certainly not anything worth killing over.

"Green again," Mercury piped up, pointing to the walls, which, sure enough, were now giving off a familiar green glow.

Kinley nodded. "All right. I think we came from this way when we crossed into the grey section. So let's go the other way. Maybe we'll find something."

_Or maybe something will find us_.

No. No, she couldn't start thinking like that. Couldn't start questioning every move. The others were looking to her. Expecting her to be a leader. She had to be certain – even if she wasn't. She wasn't even certain which way they had come from, but maybe that didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was that they _thought_ she was.

"Maybe we should just ask," Mercury suggested quietly.

Kinley turned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, your mentors already sent us a message once. They sent us a plate to tell us that the mutt was okay to eat. So maybe if they asked, they could give us some sort of hint about where there's some water."

Kinley cocked an eyebrow. It sounded a bit too simple. But, on the other hand, there wasn't really any harm in trying. "All right," she agreed. "Mags, can you help us find some water?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the walls in one direction started to glow brighter. A message? But how would Mags manage that? As they followed the lights, the ones behind them grew dim, and the ones in the distance grew brighter. Leading them on.

But _who_ was leading them on? Surely not Mags; something like this wasn't in her power as a mentor. The Gamemakers, then. But were they leading them to water, like they'd asked, or towards something else?

Suddenly, the walls fell away, and the four of them found themselves in a large room full of plants. A garden, maybe. An odd blue glow was coming from the far side of the garden. As she looked closer, Kinley could see that the glow was coming from a fountain. Water. She almost took off running towards it, but then she saw the tributes around the fountain.

What were they supposed to do now?

* * *

**Enzo Farnese, 12  
****District Eight**

He wasn't afraid.

That was what surprised Enzo the most as he saw the other alliance coming towards them, as he pointed them out to his allies, as the other two started to panic. He wasn't afraid. Because, this time, it was clear what they had to do.

They had to run.

There was no choice. No hesitation. No doubt in his mind. No part of him that wanted to even think about standing and fighting. Eigen had been alone, unarmed, and, ultimately, just as afraid as they were. The tributes that were approaching now were armed. There were four of them. They were all older, stronger, better equipped.

This was not a fight they would win.

It wasn't a fight they should even _try _to win. Not in their condition. Both Dennar and Alasdair were still a bit out of it. He doubted either of them _would_ fight even if they had to.

Fortunately, they didn't have to. They just had to run.

"Maybe they don't want to fight," Alasdair suggested quietly. "Eigen didn't want to – not really. He just wanted to get us to run away. Maybe he would have been willing to share the fountain with us. Maybe we can share it with them."

Enzo shook his head. It was a nice idea. But, when Eigen had attacked, there had been twenty-seven tributes left. Now there were only seventeen. And seven of them were here in the garden. How long did Alasdair think they could simply share their resources? How long would that sort of agreement last?

It would be safer to run.

"That's Asteria," Dennar pointed out. One of his district partners. "Maybe I can talk to her, convince her not to fight."

Again, a nice idea. And, to be fair, he might have said the same thing, if it had been Fletcher or Shilo approaching. But Eigen certainly hadn't hesitated to attack _his _district partner. Whether he had ever meant to kill him or not was irrelevant; districts didn't mean all that much at this stage of the Games.

It was safer to run.

So what were they waiting for?

The other tributes had almost reached them. They didn't seem ready to attack – none of their weapons were raised – but it was still better not to take the chance.

It was still safer to run.

"Let's _go_!" Enzo insisted, and sprinted for the door.

No one followed him. One of them called for him to come back. Did they _want_ to die? Did they really think that, if they stayed, they could share with the other alliance? Did they really think that would work?

Only as he reached the door did Enzo see why they had stayed.

It was a mutt, big and black, hidden in the shadows of the door. It looked almost like a spider, with long, crooked, barb-covered legs, a triangular head, and dozens of glowing eyes.

"Come back!" someone called again, but it was too late. Too late to stop. Too late to turn around. So Enzo did the only thing he could do. He ducked, sliding beneath one of the mutt's long, spidery legs.

But, even as he did, a second leg came plunging down towards his chest. Enzo made a move to grab it, to try to push it out of the way, but it was too late. The sharp, pointed end drove deep into his chest. Enzo let out a cry as pain coursed through his chest. Then the leg came out, covered in his blood, and blood began to flow from his chest. Red. Wet. Warm. It wouldn't be long now.

In the dim light from the fountain, he could see his allies and the other group forming a circle. Together. He glanced around. This wasn't the only mutt. There was a whole swarm of them. Preparing to attack.

But the Gamemakers didn't want them to fight mutts. Just like they hadn't wanted him to run. They wanted the tributes to fight each other.

He wondered if they would…

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

_Boom_.

Asteria nearly jumped as the boy's cannon echoed through the garden. He had tried to run. Tried to escape what was about to happen. He had done the smart thing. He had done exactly what she would have done.

And he was dead.

She wanted to run. Wanted to try to escape the circle of mutts that was closing in on them. But then she would make herself a target. Right now, she was one of six. She couldn't afford to do anything to single herself out.

But there was still a one in six chance that they would come after her next.

But they didn't. Before she knew what was happening, one of the mutts was charging towards Barclay. Barclay swung his piece of pipe. The mutt shrieked – a terrible, high-pitched sound – but didn't back down. It swung one of its barbed legs again. Barclay dodged – right into the path of another mutt, which knocked him to the ground.

Instantly, Kinley was by his side, whacking at the mutt with her pipe. One of the mutts took a stab at her, and she fell beside Barclay. Another mutt approached the two of them, but the others simply stood there, in a circle.

Why? Why hadn't they attacked?

Did the Gamemakers mean to pick them off one by one?

But what would be the point in that? Why kill all of them? They hadn't done anything.

Of course.

They hadn't done anything. They could have attacked the smaller alliance, but they hadn't. They'd approached, but it must have been clear – even to the Gamemakers – that Barclay and Kinley had no intention of fighting. And Mercury would go along with what they did. If they didn't attack, she certainly wasn't going to.

And her?

Was that what they were waiting for?

One of the mutts stabbed downwards with its leg. She heard Kinley and Barclay scream. Mercury rushed blindly in their direction, maybe hoping she wasn't too late to save them. The lights flickered on as a cannon sounded. Barclay's? Kinley's? Mercury's? Asteria wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't matter.

Either way, she might be next.

Unless she did something.

Because that was what the Gamemakers wanted. They weren't interested in getting them to fight mutts. That had been the first test, yes, but it wasn't the second. The second test was whether or not they actually had it in them to fight other tributes.

And, so far, they had failed.

If they passed the test, would the mutts leave? If they started killing each other, would the Gamemakers decide it wasn't necessary to do the job for them? It was worth a try.

And it might be the only chance they had.

* * *

**Dennar Viesennor, 14  
****District Nine**

The lights flickered on as a second cannon sounded.

Dennar glanced around. He could still see Alasdair, so the cannon had belonged to someone from the other alliance. Three of them lay on the ground together, with a mutt standing over them. One of them was still lashing out at it; the others lay still.

Suddenly, without warning, Asteria whirled around, piece of piping in hand, and swung at Alasdair. Startled, Alasdair barely had time to jump out of the way. But Asteria wasn't finished. She took another step forward, swinging again, driving him back, towards the mutts.

The mutts didn't move.

This was what the Gamemakers wanted: for them to fight each other. Asteria was giving them exactly what they wanted.

Maybe she thought that would make them call off the mutts.

Maybe she was right.

Without thinking, Dennar dashed towards the two of them. Maybe she was right. Maybe someone had to die. Maybe one of them had to die at another tribute's hands in order for this madness to stop.

But it didn't have to be Alasdair.

Alasdair had nowhere else to run. Backed up against a wall of mutts, he tried to duck under one of Asteria's blows and run the other way. But Asteria saw the move coming. She swung lower, landing a blow on his shoulder and knocking him down. She raised her pipe again.

But, when she brought it down, Dennar was there.

He did nothing to stop the blow. He'd never meant to. Never meant to fight her. Never meant to kill her. That wasn't the only way to save his friend.

The blow struck him in the head and sent him to the ground. He landed on top of Alasdair, hoping he hadn't hurt the younger boy. "You idiot!" Asteria shouted. "Why'd you get in the way?"

But he'd meant to get in the way.

Another blow came. Then another. Dennar lay sprawled on top of Alasdair, shielding the younger boy's body with his own. A high-pitched screech filled the garden. A call. The mutts turned and began to leave. The pipe struck his head again with all the force his district partner could put behind it. Then she turned and ran. Dennar smiled a little as the light faded from his eyes.

It was over.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

It was over.

Mercury groaned softly, still buried under something, as a third cannon sounded. The mutts had been attacking Barclay and Kinley. She'd tried to help. Stupid. So stupid. What was she going to be able to do that they wouldn't? She'd managed to hit one of the mutts with her pipe, but it had flung her to the ground, and then…

Then what?

Something had fallen on top of her. Something was still on top of her. She was sore all over, but she was still alive.

Slowly, she rolled out from whatever was burying her, and she could see that it was Barclay. Kinley lay nearby. The lights were on. She'd heard three cannons. One had been for the boy who had tried to escape.

Had the other two been theirs?

Barclay was closer, so she checked him first. He was still alive. Still breathing. But there was a deep gash in his chest – a blow from one of the mutt's legs. There were long, jagged marks where the barbs had dug into his skin. Mercury looked away.

Had that blow been meant for her?

It made sense. Something had fallen on top of her just as a mutt had been about to attack her. Had he meant to do that?

Then she saw Kinley's body.

Blood stained the grass all around. One of Kinley's legs had been torn off at the knee. One of her arms lay at an odd angle. And her head…

Her head was missing.

Mercury turned away just as her stomach began to heave, and soon she was vomiting up every bit of mutt she'd eaten earlier that day. Kinley was dead. And not just dead. Torn apart. What would she tell Barclay and Asteria?

Where _was_ Asteria?

Mercury glanced around, but there was no sign of her other ally. Then she saw something moving in the grass. Another body, and something underneath it. Mercury hurried towards the movement, hoping to find her missing ally.

But, instead, she saw a little boy. The boy from Three, wriggling out from under the body of his fallen ally. Carefully, Mercury knelt down and helped him roll the body off. Immediately, the boy recoiled, terror in his eyes. As if he was afraid she might hurt him.

As if he was afraid she might kill him.

"She killed him," the boy whispered. "She killed him. It was supposed to be me. He was supposed to live. But she killed him."

She. There was only one 'she' the boy could be talking about. Asteria had done this. And then she had run. That was the only explanation.

Mercury gathered the boy gently in her arms and held him close. He was alone. Both of his allies were dead. And her alliance was responsible. They had brought this. If they hadn't come, would the mutts have attacked? Maybe. But if they hadn't come, Asteria certainly wouldn't have killed his ally. "She killed him," the boy whispered again.

"I know," Mercury said softly, stroking his hair gently. "I know."

"But that's not what I'm going to do."

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He was still alive.

Alasdair followed the girl back to where her ally lay by the fountain. Silently, the two of them tended to the older boy's injuries as well as they could, washing his wounds with water from the fountain and binding them with strips of cloth from the clothes of their fallen allies. Then they gathered the three bodies and piled them on the other side of the garden, along with Eigen's and Natasha's.

All dead.

His district partners were dead. His allies were dead. They were all dead.

And he was still alive.

Alasdair glanced up at the girl from Five as they sat together by the fountain. Was she an ally now? A friend? Or simply someone who hadn't had the heart to kill a twelve-year-old boy, especially after one of her own allies had just died and another had been badly hurt? Did she want him to stay? Did she expect him to leave?

He wished she would say something.

Then again, he didn't feel much like talking, either. Not after what had just happened. Dennar was dead. Dennar had saved his life.

And he was still alive.

Again.

Alasdair tucked his knees to his chest and leaned back against the fountain. Maybe he'd been thinking about it all wrong. Maybe it wasn't simply bad luck – bad luck that everyone around him kept dying. The students in his class. Eigen. Natasha. Enzo. Alasdair. What if it wasn't simply bad luck that they were dead?

What if it was good luck that _he_ was alive?

All this time, he'd thought he was the unlucky one, to have everyone dying around him. But what if it was the other way around? After everything that happened, after all the times he _should_ have been dead, he was still here.

What if he was simply meant to survive?

"Kinley?"

Alasdair nearly jumped as the boy from Four finally stirred a little, opening his eyes at last. The girl knelt by his side, holding his hand. "Barclay, I …" She swallowed hard. "Kinley's dead."

Tears filled the boy's eyes. "And Asteria?"

"She ran away."

"The mutts … they're gone?"

The girl nodded. "All gone. But they might come back. What should we do? Should we stay here? I don't know if it's safe for you to move yet, but—"

"Doesn't matter," Barclay muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Doesn't really matter where we are, does it? They'll find us."

"He's right," Alasdair agreed. "If the Gamemakers want to send mutts after us, they can do that no matter where we are. We might as well stay where there's food and water."

We. He'd said it without question. And the girl said nothing to refute it. Did that mean they'd accepted him?

The boy glanced at him, his eyes a bit unfocused, his voice still weak. "And who's this?"

"Alasdair. I'm—" What was he? An ally? A tag-along? The new weakest link in their alliance? Then again, the other two members of that alliance were an injured boy and a girl who hadn't had the heart to kill him. Maybe it was a perfect match.

"He's a friend," the girl finished without question. "Alasdair, this is Barclay. I'm Mercury." She held out her hand.

Alasdair shook it.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

She was still asleep.

Brennan glanced at Grace, still lying in the corner, facing away from the group. Part of him hated to wake her, but it had been a few hours, at least. She had slept through four cannons. At the very least, she should wake up and eat something.

Hesitantly, he made his way to her side and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. "Grace?"

She opened her eyes a little. "I'm awake."

How long had she been awake? "Are you all right."

"I think so." She sat up slowly. "I had the … the strangest dream. It was dark, and there was a … a dim grey light in the distance. I tried to follow it, but the closer I got, the dimmer it seemed to be. So I turned. I went the other way, and the light grew brighter. Brighter and brighter. There was a … a strange noise, like some sort of flapping. Like a bird – a giant bird, shaking the room. Then I heard a voice, and it said…" She trailed off.

Brennan leaned forward a little. "What did it say?"

"It said, 'Will you follow me into fire?' That's it. That's all it said. Then it was gone, and it was dark again. I woke up, but it … it didn't feel like waking up. It felt like falling asleep again, as if the dream were real, and this … as if _this_ was a dream."

Brennan shook his head. "But it's not a dream. We're here."

Grace nodded. "Of course we are. And that's the thing. It doesn't feel like a dream now. But for those few seconds, it was as if … as if everything was so clear, as if suddenly none of this mattered, and all I wanted was to stay in that grey light, to hear that voice again."

Brennan nodded a little. It made sense. Of course she didn't want to be here. Of course anything in a dream – however strange – would be preferable to the nightmare they were living in right now.

Or maybe she was losing it.

Maybe he'd made the wrong choice about who to bring with him. Who would crack under pressure. Maybe he should have chosen Elaine.

"What do you think?" Grace asked.

Brennan shook his head. "Doesn't matter what I think."

Grace smiled a little. "_Our thoughts form the Universe. They always matter_."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just something my father says." She shook her head. "Maybe I'm just going crazy."

"Crazy people don't know they're going crazy; they think they're getting sane," Brennan pointed out. "Something my mother says."

"She's a smart woman."

"That she is." He hadn't realized, until that moment, just how much he missed her. How much he missed home. A home that was now a couple hundred miles beneath them. He'd never felt quite so alone.

But he wasn't alone. He still had Grace. And Blythe and Elaine. For now. They were still here.

But that wouldn't – couldn't – last forever. In order for him to make it home, they would have to die. They would have to leave him completely alone.

Brennan shook the thought from his head. He couldn't think about that yet. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to think about them dying.

Other tributes, yes. He could picture them dying. He'd killed, after all, but he had really never known the pair from Seven. He didn't even know their names. They were just faces. Numbers. As much as he hated it, he could live with that.

But, right now, he wasn't ready to deal with the thought of the same thing happening to Grace, to Blythe, to Elaine. He wasn't ready.

Part of him wondered if he ever would be.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

Four cannons.

Dewan rolled over and opened his eyes. Four cannons since he'd decided to try to lie down and get some sleep, and three of them very recently, one right after the other. Someone was busy.

Maybe it was time he followed their example.

Dewan tried to do the math in his head, but he quickly lost count. How many cannons had there been before these four? How many were left?

Six during the bloodbath. Natasha. Six after that. Four since he'd tried to fall asleep. That was seventeen. But there had been some between the bloodbath and Natasha's death. But how many? Three? Four? That would bring the count to twenty-something.

Which meant, at most, there were fifteen or sixteen of them left.

Sixteen. Better to go with sixteen. Better to assume too many than too few. And, in any case, it was probably time he did something. He still had plenty of sterilized water left, but his stomach was beginning to ache from lack of food. He had to find some – and soon.

Which meant he had to decide where to look.

Part of him had hoped, when he'd decided to sleep on it, that something might happen to help him make up his mind one way or the other. But nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Maybe he should just ask.

Mortimer had given him a hint before, after all. The rock he had sent had been the key to figuring out how the shuttle worked. But a rock wasn't much of a sponsor gift. Surely he could afford to send something else. If he didn't want to send food, maybe he could send a hint. Tell him whether it was safer to go to the green section or to the cornucopia.

Maybe all he had to do was ask.

Dewan glanced around, looking for the cameras. "I want to find food. Tell me where I should go."

To his surprise, the response was immediate. A panel in the ceiling slid away, and a small parachute dropped into his hand.

This time, he wasn't surprised by the rock. What he _was _surprised by was the color: a bright, unmistakable yellow.

There hadn't been any yellow on any of the maps. Or orange. Or anything that could possibly have been mistaken for yellow. The cornucopia was in the red section. The garden was in the green section.

Where was the yellow section?

Dewan shrugged, tucked a scalpel into his pocket, and picked up his handsaw. If Mortimer thought he should go to the yellow section – wherever it was – then that was where he would go. Mortimer's advice had, so far, been sound. He had no reason to start questioning him now.

The train car was right where he'd left it, and the doors slid open obediently. Dewan stepped inside, glancing at the map again. Still no yellow. The doors slid shut. Dewan shrugged. "Yellow."

The train car took off.

* * *

**Stellar Cheviott  
****District One Mentor**

There was only one place "yellow" could mean.

Stellar stormed over to where Mortimer was watching the screen, calmly sipping a drink as the shuttle rolled out of the purple section and away from all the other sections – except one. "Why would you send him there?" she demanded.

Mortimer turned, genuinely surprised. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? It's obvious where that shuttle's going. I mean, sure, Elaine and her allies have food, but not that much. Why send him after them? Why not send him to the cornucopia? There's no one there! Or send him to the gardens; it's not like those three are going to put up much of a fight – not after what just happened. But sending him after Elaine's group – What makes you think that's going to end well for anyone?"

"Stellar—"

"Sure, someone's going to find them eventually. But do you really think _now_ is the best time to send him in there? They'll see him coming, and they'll be ready. He's armed, sure, but there are four of them. He might be able to kill one or two, but what's he going to do about four of them?"

"Stellar, I—"

"How did you even know to send him a yellow rock, anyway? There's no yellow anywhere on that map. How did you know which section was yellow? How did you know calling for the yellow section wouldn't send him flying out into the sun or something?"

"I didn't. I—"

"You _what_?"

Mortimer shook his head, still as baffled as she was.

"I didn't send it."

* * *

"_The third principle of sentient life is the capacity for self-sacrifice: the conscious ability to override evolution and self-preservation for a cause, a friend, a loved one."_


	36. The Death of Flesh

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yep, another quick update. Partly because this one's a bit shorter (due to the decreasing number of tributes) and came really easily to me. Partly because we're reached the point in the Games where I have a lot of this stuff plotted out, and it's just a matter of getting it into the right words. And partly because I have nothing better to do with a long Valentine's Day/Presidents' Day weekend than sit around and kill tributes. My lack of a social life is good for my stories.

Results of the poll are up on the blog. New poll on my profile, this time asking who you _want_ to see in the final four. As usual, **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

* * *

**Day Four  
****The Death of Flesh**

* * *

**Tobiah Clement  
****District Nine Mentor**

He'd never expected to care this much.

Tobiah shook his head as Alistern poured him another drink. "How do you stand it, Crispy? Is this what it feels like every year – really mentoring? Do you always end up caring this much about the little bastards?"

He hadn't meant to care. Hadn't meant to get attached. But Dennar had asked him to mentor. He'd been the first person to think Tobiah was really up to the task.

And he'd failed. Miserably. Not only had Dennar died, but he'd died needlessly. All he'd had to do was let Asteria kill Alasdair, instead. He hadn't even had to kill anyone himself; he'd simply needed to _let_ Alasdair die.

But he hadn't even been able to do that.

Not that he blamed Asteria, either. He'd killed his own district partner, after all; blaming her for doing the same would be hypocritical. And she'd been the one to figure it out – to work out that the Gamemakers weren't going to call off the mutts until one of them killed another.

And if she hadn't figured out, there may very well have been seven of them dead in that garden instead of just three.

Because none of the others had been ready to kill each other. None of them would have had the heart to start the fight that had to happen. Asteria was different. She'd seen what needed to be done, and she'd done it. But she'd stopped there. Killing one was enough for her; that was all that needed to happen. She could have finished Alasdair, too; no one would have been able to stop her.

But she hadn't needed to kill Alasdair. Killing Dennar had been enough to get rid of the mutts, so she had stopped. And she had run.

Which was probably a smart move, as well. Kinley was dead, Barclay was injured, and Mercury would never understand what she'd done. She was better off on her own. She would last longer that way.

Longer. But probably not long enough. No matter what she did – no matter what any of them did – it never seemed to be enough. That was why he'd decided to stop trying, years ago. He'd been stupid enough to think that this year would be different.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Yes."

Tobiah glanced up at Crispin. "Yes what?"

"Yes, you always end up caring. No matter how often you tell yourself not to, no matter how many times you tell yourself that your chances of bringing someone home this year – any year – are slim, you still care. You have to. That's what makes us human. Our ability to feel their fear, their pain. Their hopes, their dreams, their futures – all torn away in an instant. If we don't care, it all means nothing."

"It means nothing, anyway," Tobiah mumbled into his drink. "What difference does it make, in the end – any of it? What difference do we make? What difference do they make? We're nothing – nothing. We're … we're candles, flickering in the breeze. Just a little wisp of wind, and – poof! – we're gone." He shook his head.

Maybe Dennar was the lucky one.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She hadn't expected them to let her go.

Asteria kept running, turning down one hallway, then another. The hallways quickly lost their green glow for a plain, dull grey. Good. She wanted to get as far away as possible before someone decided to come after her. Before the mutts returned. Before the Gamemakers changed their minds, before they decided that killing one tribute and then running away simply wasn't enough.

Because it wasn't enough, in the end. It wouldn't be enough to get her home. But it was a start. It was a first step.

And now there was no turning back.

She was a killer now. But she had also saved them. Whoever was left, they were only alive because she'd figured out what needed to be done. And then she'd done it. They were alive because she was willing to kill.

But, eventually, they would have to die, too.

But not yet. By now, they'd had some time to regroup, and she was in no condition to fight all of them – however many of them were left. There had been seven of them – including her. Three cannons. One was Dennar's. One belonged to the boy who had tried to run.

And the third? Barclay? Kinley? Mercury? She wasn't sure who to hope for. Barclay was certainly the strongest, physically, but she doubted he had it in him to kill her, if it came to that. Kinley had taken up a position as the leader of the group, so they might be weaker with her gone. And Mercury … She wasn't really a threat.

Which, with her luck, probably meant the cannon had been hers.

Asteria stopped to catch her breath, surprised by how easily those thoughts had come to her. How quickly she'd begun to think of her former allies as competition. But wasn't that what they'd always been? They couldn't all win. They couldn't all make it out of the Games alive.

Maybe it was better to part ways now.

Maybe this way, she wouldn't have to be the one to kill them.

A few hours ago, she wouldn't have been able to even imagine herself being the one to kill any of them. But now – now that there was blood on her hands – now it was easier to swallow the idea that, sooner or later, that blood might be theirs. She might need to fight them. She might need to kill them.

She still didn't want to, but maybe that didn't matter. None of them _wanted _to fight, after all – not really. Especially not this year. None of the tributes had volunteered for this. None of them had chosen this. None of them wanted to be here.

But they _were _here. And only one would leave.

And, for the first time, Asteria truly believed that it might be her.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

He'd never really expected Kinley to die.

Barclay rolled over a little, careful not to move too quickly. His chest still throbbed where the mutt's barbs had dug deep into his skin. He was still a bit lightheaded, still very, very tired.

But he was alive.

And Kinley was dead.

Part of him had always known, of course – at least, on some level – that she was going to die. That she would have to, if he wanted to go home. But another part of him had never quite accepted it. She had seemed so confident. So certain. If – no, _when_ – someone in their alliance had to die first, he wouldn't have guessed it would be her.

He wouldn't have picked her.

Not that there was anyone he would have _wanted_ to pick. Anyone he _wanted _to die. But why did it have to be her? Why did she have to be first?

And why was he still here?

When he'd thrown himself on top of Mercury, he'd half-expected that to be the end. Half-expected the next cannon to be his. And there was a part of him that would have been okay with that. Saving Mercury. Giving his life for a friend. Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. At least there would have been some meaning to it.

There hadn't been any meaning to Kinley's death. She hadn't saved anyone. Hadn't stopped the mutts from getting to anyone else. She'd just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

She'd just been unlucky.

And what about him? Had he been lucky or unlucky? He was still alive, but that was about all he had going for him right now. He was injured, and Mercury seemed to think it was pretty bad. From the pain in his chest and the dizziness, he could hardly argue with her. Maybe it would be better if he'd simply died then, and saved himself the pain now.

Maybe Kinley was the lucky one.

She wasn't in any pain now, after all. Sure, she had been – for a while. Being torn apart by spider mutts certainly wouldn't feel _good_. But it was over. It was done. She was gone, and he was still here. Still in pain. Still just waiting. Waiting to die? Waiting to live? He wasn't even sure anymore.

Mercury squeezed his hand, almost as if she'd heard his thoughts. Had he said some of it aloud by mistake? He couldn't remember.

"Don't you dare," Mercury insisted. "Don't you dare give up. Don't you dare leave us."

Us. That was right. There were two of them. Mercury and … Alasdair? Was that it? He could barely remember the little boy's name. None of it seemed to matter right now.

Maybe it had never mattered.

Barclay closed his eyes. No. No, he wouldn't leave them. Not as long as he could help it.

But how long would that be?

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

She'd never expected to have a full stomach during the Hunger Games.

Ryzer smiled contentedly as she and Cassandra wolfed down some more of the food they'd taken from the cornucopia. Neither of them had made any attempt to ration it. Not much point in that, when they could simply go back and get some more whenever they wanted. And what they'd taken would last them quite a while.

They had everything they could ask for.

Strange, really, that their time in the arena could be more pleasant than their lives before the Games. Cassandra had never had an easy time of it in District Six, either – that much was obvious. Neither of them had left much behind. Neither of them had much to go back to. Which meant that neither of them had much to lose.

Nothing they would regret being rid of.

What did she have to go back to, in the end? If she won, what was waiting for her in District Six? A big house? What was she going to do with that, after spending so much time on the streets? She wouldn't know what to do with a proper home if someone gave it to her. Pantries full of food, closets full of clothes – they were all meaningless, without someone there to share them with.

And she had no one. No one back in District Six who would care whether she returned or not. No one she would be able to share her good fortune with.

The only friend she had in all of Panem was sitting next to her.

Ryzer giggled a little. At least she had found that much. After all, how many people in the Games could say that they'd found someone they considered a friend? Someone they could really trust with their lives? How many alliances could say that?

She wondered if Cassandra felt the same. Did she trust Ryzer the same way? Did she see her only as a temporary companion, or would she trust Ryzer with her life, if it came to that?

As if in answer, Cassandra spoke up. "We should probably get some rest. Do you want to take the first watch, or should I?"

Ryzer grinned. "_I'll keep watch; you get some rest – I'll wake you when I think it's best._"

Cassandra nodded and curled up in a corner. Almost like a cat. Exactly like a cat. How many cats had she snuck up on while they were in that position? Unaware, defenseless?

No. No, Cassandra wasn't her prey. There was no reason to turn on each other. No reason for her to turn on her only friend. Not yet.

Not yet.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

He'd never expected to sleep well in the arena.

Lynher sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. In the light, he finally got a better look at the room he was in – and the two bodies that shared it with him. A boy and a girl – District Seven, he was pretty sure. Their clothes were torn, as if parts of them had been sliced off with a knife. Blood stained the floor around the girl's body. A deep gash across her stomach left little doubt about how she had died; a few of her intestines lay on the floor beside her. Lynher looked away.

The boy's body had fared a little better, but he was just as dead. There were marks on his neck. Had someone choked him to death? Lynher tried to imagine that – strangling someone with his bare hands.

He tried to imagine it happening to him.

No. No, he needed to stop thinking like that. They were already dead. There was nothing he could do to help them. Nothing he could do to change what had happened to them. The best thing he could do now would be to make sure it didn't happen to him.

Lynher opened the bag of supplies he'd packed before leaving the cornucopia. He had plenty of food and water for a while, but it was probably best not to eat too much at once. There was no telling how long his supplies would have to last. He had no desire to go back to the cornucopia. Daedem had let him simply walk away once, but he didn't want to take that chance again.

If Daedem was still there. If Daedem was still alive.

There had been five cannons since Lynher had abandoned the cornucopia and his ally. Five cannons since he'd struck out on his own. Had one of them been Daedem's?

He almost hoped one of them had.

Lynher clenched his fists. He hated thinking it, but Daedem was an opponent now. He was competition. And he was a proven killer. An injured killer, yes, but a killer, nonetheless.

Then again, so was he.

Lynher's glance strayed once more to the two dead bodies on the floor. What made what he had done any better than what had happened to them? The boy from Eight was just as dead as they were. There was no difference – none. There was no moral high ground – not any more. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, no wondering what might have happened if he'd made a different choice.

He'd made a choice. He had chosen to kill. And now he would have to live with that.

But that was still a better option than dying.

Because, as horrible as it was, he knew that, if he had to choose again between killing and dying, he would do the same thing. He would make the same choice. At the end of the day, he valued his own life more than he valued the life of anyone else in the arena.

And why not? Why not choose his own life over theirs? What made their lives any better than his? Maybe his life wasn't anything particularly special, in the grand scheme of things, but neither were theirs. If it had to be one of them or him … Why shouldn't it be him?

Why shouldn't he be the one to live?

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

He'd never thought to explore this part of the station.

Dewan watched the hallways zoom by outside the window. Away from the purple section. Away from both the cornucopia and the gardens. Where were the Gamemakers taking him?

And what would he find when he got there?

At last, the door opened into a dark hallway. Dewan stepped out. There was nothing. No supplies. No food. Nothing here.

But this was where the track stopped. So he was probably supposed to go on alone.

Except he wasn't alone.

He didn't see them at first – the three shapes in the shadows. Large, dark, with long, crooked legs and glowing eyes. By the time he saw them, the doors had slid shut behind him. They had him surrounded.

But they didn't attack.

For a moment, Dewan simply stood there. Waiting. Waiting for an attack that, after a moment, he realized wasn't coming. Why? Why weren't they trying to kill him? That was what mutts did.

Wasn't it?

But these ones weren't. If they'd wanted to kill him, they could have done it already. If the Gamemakers had wanted to send mutts after him, they could have done so anywhere. Why had they brought him here? What were they waiting for?

What did they want?

Maybe it didn't matter.

Dewan took a step forward. The mutts didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Another step. Then another. Past the mutts. Down the hall.

And they followed.

Dewan stared, baffled, as he turned to see the mutts following him down the hall, their claws clacking rhythmically on the floor. They were following him closely. Almost obediently. Were they his backup? Did the Gamemakers mean for them to fight _with _him rather than attack him?

If so, who were they going up against? Who did the Gamemakers want dead badly enough to offer a tribute a few mutts to help get the job done?

The boy from Five, maybe – the one they'd turned into an avox. Was he still alive? Or maybe the one from Eight who had claimed to be the Robber Prince. That would certainly be worth the Gamemakers' attention. Dewan gripped his saw. Either of them would be a capable opponent. Maybe it was a good thing the mutts were here.

Maybe that was what the Gamemakers were counting on.

Suddenly, the hallway stopped, ending in a large doorway, the door closed in front of him. Dewan pushed. The door didn't budge. Someone was inside. Someone who didn't want him coming in.

But the Gamemakers wanted him inside.

Dewan turned to the mutts. Was that why they were there? To break down the door and get him inside? It was certainly worth a try. He eyed the mutts cautiously, as if the wrong word might turn them against him.

"A little help?"

* * *

**Elaine Willis, 14  
****District One**

Brennan had kept his promise.

Elaine crouched beside the door, their alliance's single knife in her hand, waiting. Waiting for whatever was about to come through. Something was cutting away at the door. Some_thing_, not some_one_. Some sort of mutts were on the other side. And, according to the map, that was all; no lights had been coming their way.

Their best chance was the element of surprise. Whatever was about to come through that door wouldn't be expecting someone to be directly on the other side. They would expect them to be hiding. Trying to get as far away as possible.

And that was exactly where the others were – crouched behind a cluster of panels on the other side of the room. They only had one weapon. Only one of them could be armed.

Brennan had kept his promise. He had picked her.

One person would have an easier time hiding, he'd said. One person would have an easier time slipping away if things went wrong. One person might be able to get out.

But there was also another reason. Something he hadn't said. Something he hadn't wanted to say in front of the others.

Whatever came through that door had to find _someone_. _Someone_ had barricaded it. _Someone _was here. But, if things started to go wrong, it was better if their attackers didn't find all of them. If they thought she was alone – if she was the only one they found – then they might leave once…

Once…

Was that the real reason he had picked her? Was she the expendable one? Was she the one the others wouldn't miss?

Or was she simply their best chance of getting the job done?

Elaine turned the knife over again in her hands. This was real. Everything came down to this one moment. She would live or die based on what happened in the few seconds after the door broke. Her hands were sweating. Her whole body was shaking. She was terrified.

But some small part of her was excited.

This was what she had wanted all her life – the chance to be more than a proper little lady. The chance to prove herself – to prove that she had what it took.

But did she?

The door was beginning to shake. A few more seconds, and it would fall. A few more seconds. This was it.

The door came down with a crash.

For a moment, all she saw where shadows. Dark shapes, streaming through the door. A loud, piercing screech filled the room. Then she saw him. A boy.

A tribute. So the map had lied. The Gamemakers had fooled them.

But there seemed to be only one.

One tribute, and a few mutts.

_Go for the boy first_.

But, in the instant it took her to decide, he had already seen her. He swung his own weapon – some sort of saw – and Elaine barely had time to duck. She'd lost the element of surprise. But now she had no choice. No choice but to fight.

Elaine dove low, aiming for his legs. He hadn't been expecting that. His blow was late and clumsy, while hers found its mark, her knife burying itself in his thigh. But, before she had time to pull it out again, something struck her on the head. The blunt side of the saw. Elaine toppled backwards, her head reeling, her vision blurred.

Then she saw the knife coming towards her throat.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

_Boom_.

Blythe clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming as the boy drew his knife out of Elaine's throat, then pulled Elaine's own knife out of his leg. She wanted to scream. Wanted to run out there and save Elaine. But it was too late. There hadn't been time. They'd never had any chance of saving her.

They hadn't even tried.

Blythe glanced at Brennan, eyes wide, hoping for some sort of reaction. Some hint that he was as horrified as she and Grace were. But he was simply staring, eyes fixed firmly on the boy, waiting for him to make his next move. Had he been expecting this?

Had he _planned _this?

Had he known that Elaine was going to die? Had he chosen her to guard the door just so that whoever came through would find someone – and then, hopefully, believe that she was the only one?

Tears filled Blythe's eyes. Elaine was dead. Dead. And Brennan may have planned the whole thing.

She just hoped Elaine hadn't died for nothing.

Maybe the boy would leave. Maybe the mutts would leave. Maybe that was it – all the Gamemakers wanted. One death.

The boy took a step towards them.

The mutts followed.

Were they obeying him? Was he controlling them? Why? Why would the Gamemakers give a tribute control over the mutts? It didn't make any sense, unless…

Unless one of them had done something. Something to upset the Gamemakers, or the president, or the Capitol. Something that would make them a target.

But what could any of them have done?

Silently, they watched as the boy came closer and closer. He wasn't going to leave. The mutts weren't going to leave. But he was armed. They weren't. He had three mutts to protect him. They had nothing. Nothing at all.

The boy took a step closer. Closer. Soon, it wouldn't matter that they were hiding. Soon, he would be able to see them.

Blythe glanced at Brennan, then Grace. Brennan nodded towards the door. Grace hesitated, but then nodded her agreement. Blythe nodded and placed a hand on the pack of supplies at her feet, hoping they were thinking the same thing she was.

The three of them ran.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

It was as if the Gamemakers wanted them to run.

Brennan didn't even glance behind him as the three of them raced out the door. The mutts waited a moment before following. As if giving them a head start. Lengthening the chase.

The boy didn't wait. He was close behind them, and gaining fast despite the wound in his leg. Brennan clenched his fists. One of the boys from Two. Trained. In shape. He would catch them soon.

They had to think of something.

Suddenly, there was a thump behind them. Blythe had dropped the pack she was carrying. No, not dropped it. Thrown it. She'd thrown it right at the boy – maybe hoping that, if he had the supplies he had come for, he would let them go.

Not a bad idea. The supplies were all they had, yes, but their lives were worth more. They could find more supplies.

But only if they survived this.

At first, it seemed to work. The boy slowed. Picked up the pack. He hesitated, waiting. Deciding. He was injured. He probably didn't want to keep chasing them – not now that he had what he'd come for. Brennan knew he wouldn't want to.

But the mutts didn't hesitate. They quickly passed the boy, still chasing after the three of them.

Why?

"This is my fault."

Brennan turned towards Grace as they ran, surprised to see that her face was white. Terrified. What did she mean? How was this her fault?

He didn't have time to ask. She grabbed his hand as they ran, squeezed it, and then let go. "Take care of her."

"What do you mean?"

Grace shook her head. There wasn't time to explain. "_Entil'zha veni_," she whispered.

Then she turned and stopped.

And ran the other way.

For a moment, Blythe stopped, too. Hesitated. "Go!" Grace shouted. "Just go!"

Brennan grabbed Blythe's hand and pulled. And the two of them ran.

The mutts didn't follow. Brennan didn't look back. He just kept running, with Blythe by his side. They had to keep going. They couldn't look back.

Suddenly, he saw something up ahead. Some sort of train car, the doors open. "Inside!" Brennan yelled. "Now!"

Blythe didn't think twice. She followed him inside. Only then did they look back. There was no sign of Grace.

"We have to go back!" Blythe insisted. "We have to try to help her! We can't just leave her!"

Yes. Yes, they could. And more than that. They had to. Brenann shook his head. "We can't help her, Blythe. We can't. We have to go."

The doors slid shut.

* * *

**Grace Sawyer, 14  
****District Ten**

"Go! Just go!"

Grace didn't look back. She couldn't. If she did, she knew, she would want to follow them. Would want to escape with them. But she couldn't. She couldn't escape what was coming. And if she tried, she would just drag them down with her.

All three of them could die. Or it could just be her.

The mutts were closing, with the boy from Two close behind them. Grace didn't think. Didn't have time to think. She charged. The mutts parted for her, as if startled. But she knew better. They were clearing a path for her. Herding her somewhere.

Herding her back to the dome.

Grace kept running. There were worse places they could lead her. If she had to make her last stand somewhere, maybe that was the best place – among the stars.

Grace ran past the boy, who, startled, barely had time to take a swipe at her as she passed. The blade grazed her arm, but she kept running. She had to. That was what they wanted.

And if she gave them what they wanted, then her allies would have time to escape. They wanted her. And they would have her – no matter what she did. But they couldn't have the others. They couldn't have Brennan and Blythe. Not yet, at least. That would be her victory.

The only victory she had left to claim.

It hadn't taken her long to work out – not once she saw the mutts. This sort of thing only happened when the Gamemakers were targeting someone in particular. Elaine was dead. They had no reason to target Brennan or Blythe.

So it had to be her.

The mutts and the boy reached her just as she was clambering over the remains of what was once the door to the domed room. Grace whirled around. She had nowhere left to run. She had to face him.

But she didn't have any weapons.

Grace scooped up a wooden piece of the doorframe just in time to block the boy's blow. Surprised, the boy tucked the knife away and picked up a piece himself, swinging it with all the force he could muster. The blow nearly knocked the wooden shield from Grace's grasp.

Then she saw the mutt's claw, swinging towards her head. Grace ducked, thrusting the piece of the doorframe between them. But, even as she did, her flimsy shield shattered under the mutt's blow, and there was a terrible cracking as pain flooded her arm. Grace tumbled backwards beneath what used to be the doorway. The boy charged.

But something stopped him.

Grace stared as the boy collided with something – some sort of invisible wall that now separated the two of them. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet, only to find that she was surrounded by some sort of invisible barrier, forming a cylinder all around her.

Before any of them could react, a panel slid away in the ceiling above her, and a light filled the cylinder. A pale blue light, some sort of beam. Hot. Burning.

_Will you follow me into fire?_

Grace clenched her fists as the flames grew hotter. Hotter. Agony ripped through her body as the beam grew more intense. Her skin started to char. Her clothes were on fire. Burning. She was burning.

_Will you follow me into fire?_

"_Entil'zha veni_," she whispered again, falling to her knees at last as the pain coursed through her body. _Entil'zha veni. In the Name of the One._

Then she looked up.

The pale blue light had turned grey. A dim, grey light – far away, remote, but drifting closer. Closer. She heard something. A faint sound, like the flapping of wings. The pain was duller now – almost as if she was already gone. As if it was all happening to someone else, a long time ago. As if none of it mattered anymore.

_Will you follow me into fire?_

Grace closed her eyes.

She wondered if…

* * *

**Glenn Chester  
****District Ten Mentor**

_Boom._

Glenn watched, tears in his eyes, as Grace's cannon sounded and the lights flickered off. He watched as the beam of fire consumed what remained of her body, leaving only a pile of ashes. He watched as the mutts disappeared into the shadows, their work finished, leaving Dewan standing in shock over what had just happened.

"_Entil'zha veni_."

Glenn looked up, startled, as Silas took a seat on the couch beside him. "What?"

"_Entil'zha veni_. What she said at the end."

Glenn shook his head. "What language is that? I've never heard it before."

"Nor are you likely to again," Silas agreed. "As far as anyone knows, it means, _In the Name of the One_. No one seems to know quite what language it is, but the phrase is … an epitaph. According to legend, it's what a Child of Valen says when they know death is upon them."

Glenn blinked, still a bit lost. "A Child of Valen?"

Silas smiled a little. "You don't have to deny it; there's nothing more they can do to her now. Chances are, they knew a long time ago, but she did a good job of trying to hide it. They may call themselves something else – or nothing at all – in the districts, and I wasn't certain until I heard those words. But there's no other reason they would go after her like that."

Glenn looked away. They. The Gamemakers. They had targeted Grace. Part of him had known, but it still hurt to hear Silas say it. That her fate had been unavoidable. Inescapable. There had never been anything he could do to help her.

Glenn shook his head. "How do you know about…"

"Before Aron Meldair was a mentor for District Six, he was … a friend. A good friend. A good man, if an odd one." He leaned back. "You have to understand, Glenn, that's all it's considered here in the Capitol. An oddity. A strange eccentricity, but a harmless one. In the districts, though, it's … discouraged."

"Discouraged," Glenn repeated. That beam of fire had been a bit more than a discouragement.

"Officially, yes," Silas nodded. "It's not outlawed in the usual sense. Because that would mean acknowledging it. Legitimizing it. Recognizing that it's a threat."

"A threat?"

"Yes. Not that they're outright rebellious, mind you – not like Niles and his lot. The Children of Valen believe in peace. Kindness. Respect for the sacredness of all life. Which is all well and good and rather harmless, but they also believe in something _more_. A greater power that we can't understand and can never control. And something more, something beyond this life. And that's dangerous because it gives people _hope_. Niles and Fletcher – they were hurricanes. Wild and unpredictable and uncontrollable. Grace was the gentle breeze, the soft whisper, the small, still voice that says, 'No. Someone stronger than you is in control.' And that … that's even more dangerous."

Glenn swallowed hard, remembering what had happened to Niles' family after his death. "What will happen to them – her family?"

Silas shook his head. "Probably nothing – at least not right away. No one will want to draw attention to this sort of thing. As far as most people are concerned, she's just another unfortunate tribute in the Games who happened to spout some gibberish just before she died. She didn't help that image by rambling on about a half-remembered dream. She'll be forgotten, and her family along with her. But I wouldn't be surprised if, later, they simply disappear. A few months, a few years, maybe more. Once people have had time to forget them, one day, they'll simply be gone. No evidence. No memory."

Glenn let that sink in for a moment. Grace, who had never uttered a word against the Capitol, who had been so careful to hide her beliefs, careful not to draw attention to herself, had been singled out for death, along with her family. And for what? For believing in something better? Something kinder? Something nobler?

And now they would be forgotten, without another word. Ignored by the Capitol. Shunned by those who had known them. With no one to remember who they were and what they had stood for.

Glenn shook his head. No. They would not be forgotten. Not completely. He would see to that.

He would remember.

* * *

"_Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril, we can never surrender."_


	37. Slaves to Our Histories

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final four" poll if you haven't already. On that note, while I realize that there may be one tribute in particular you want to see as the victor, these polls are most helpful to me when voters select _four _tributes for the final four, _eight _tributes for the final eight, etc. (Not that it's really likely to change anything at this point, as my plans for the final four are one of the few things that haven't changed since the Games began. But it bugs me when the numbers don't add up.)

* * *

**Day Four  
****Slaves to Our Histories**

* * *

**Misha Brimmer  
****District Four Mentor**

He wished there was something he could do.

Misha drummed his fingers on the table. Barclay was getting worse, but, ever since the fight in the garden, all the sponsors had gone dead silent. Barclay and Kinley had seemed so promising at first, but now, in the final twelve, no one wanted to sponsor a tribute who hadn't proven that they would fight.

Especially when there were other options. Better options. Of the twelve remaining tributes, seven had made at least one kill. Four had made more than one. Of the five who hadn't, three – Alasdair, Mercury, and Barclay – were sitting together in that garden, not likely to do so anytime soon. They were the biggest remaining alliance, yes, but that was really all they had going for them.

And it wasn't enough.

"They'll figure it out eventually."

Misha looked up as Sabine slid into the seat next to him. "Figure what out?" he asked. "That we can't help them?"

Sabine actually smiled a little. "Well, that, too, I suppose, but that's not what I meant. Sooner or later, they'll have to figure out whether or not they really want to live."

"You don't think they do?"

Sabine shrugged. "I didn't. That's why I volunteered, you know."

He hadn't known. "You … wanted to die?"

"Yeah. Or, at least, I thought I did. Didn't have much of a life back in District Five, and the nobler, selfless part of me figured that if I was going to kill myself, I might as well save someone else's life in the process. No point in killing myself and then letting some poor kid get reaped for the Games, right? Might as well kill two tributes with one stone, so to speak."

Misha blinked. He never would have guessed. "So what changed?"

"I did. The Games, Misha … they change everybody. Some people change for the worse, but some of us … some of us actually come out better. But the point is, for a long time in the Games, I didn't actually know whether I wanted to make it out or not." She shook her head. "And I don't think they know, either."

"Barclay—"

"Threw himself in front of Mercury without a second thought. Why do you think no one will sponsor him, Misha? It's not because he hasn't killed; it's because he'd rather save his allies than himself. He'd rather die a hero than come out of the Games like … well, like you."

Like him. Maybe Sabine was right. Hell, maybe Barclay was right for not wanting to end up like him, for thinking that maybe dying in the Games was a better option, a kinder option. Maybe it _was_.

"So how do we know?"

"Know?"

"When they decide – whether they want to live or not."

Sabine shrugged. "Trust me; you'll know. And so will the sponsors."

"And until then? Is there anything we can do to help them?"

Sabine shook her head. "Not a thing."

Misha sighed. That's what he'd been afraid she'd say. And she was right. Sponsor gifts and helpful hints were all well and good, but they could only help them for so long. Sooner or later, the tributes would have to make a choice.

Sooner or later, they would have to help themselves.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

She wished there was something she could do.

Mercury nearly jumped as the cannon sounded and the lights flickered off, but, to her surprise, Barclay and Alasdair continued to sleep soundly. Mercury clenched her fists. Barclay wasn't getting any better. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse. Why didn't their mentors do something?

Why hadn't _she_ done something?

Mercury swallowed hard. There _was_ something she could do, of course. She could go back to the cornucopia. She could try to find some medicine.

Mercury glanced at Barclay. They hadn't been back to the cornucopia since the bloodbath. There was no way of knowing who, if anyone, was there now. There had been twenty-four cannons. Twelve of them were left.

And three of them were here.

Asteria was probably still alive. That made four. Four tributes she could account for. Eight unknowns. Going back to the cornucopia was a risk. Here, they had food. They had water. She and Alasdair could last a while here, as long as nothing happened.

But how long would Barclay last?

Twelve of them left. Mercury chose an apple from the pile of fruit and turned it over in her hands. With only twelve of them left … Was that a risk she was willing to take? For someone who would have to die, anyway, if she was going to go home? She couldn't imagine killing Barclay, but would it be better – kinder – to let him die now? If she saved him now, she was simply buying him a little more time. A few days, maybe more.

Were those few days worth the risk?

But if she didn't – if he died – then it would just be her and Alasdair. How long would they last without him? They would certainly fare better in a fight if all three of them were healthy. And, if nothing else, Barclay had proven that he was willing to fight to protect her.

Willing to die to protect her.

Mercury looked away. Was that the real reason – the real reason for the nagging feeling that she should go back to the cornucopia? Did she owe it to him to try? He'd risked his life to save her. Didn't she owe him the same in return?

Did she?

Mercury squeezed the fruit in her hands. She hadn't asked Barclay to save her. She never would have asked him to dive in front of her and take that blow. But he had. No hesitation, no doubts. He hadn't thought twice.

So why was she?

Maybe she did owe it to him. But, now that it came down to it, as terrible as it felt, she didn't want to do the same for him. She didn't want to risk her life. She didn't want to die. Her debt to Barclay wasn't a good enough reason to go back.

But maybe there was another one.

Another reason. Something she hadn't thought of at first. Maybe there was a reason their mentors hadn't sent anything for Barclay. Maybe they were waiting for her to act first. Maybe they were testing her. Their alliance had passed the first test – they'd killed the mutt – but she hadn't really had a hand in that. They'd failed the second test – that much was clear. Was this the third test? Were they giving her another chance to prove herself? Mercury clenched her fists, her mind finally made up.

She wasn't going to fail again.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

He couldn't stop staring.

Dewan gripped the pack of supplies tightly, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the girl had stood. Where she had died. Only a small pile of ashes lay there now, all that remained of the girl the Gamemakers had wanted dead.

Because that was the only explanation. The only reason the mutts would have taken his side, the reason they'd herded her back here instead of letting the mutts tear her to shreds, the reason they'd trapped her and killed her themselves rather than letting him finish the job quickly. They'd planned this specifically for her. He'd simply been their instrument. Their tool. Their pawn.

They'd used him.

But part of him didn't care. Because that meant he was still alive. He was still here.

He couldn't count on their help again, of course – not now that the girl was gone. The mutts had disappeared into the shadows. They'd served their purpose, and so had he. From now on, he'd have to fight his own battles. The Gamemakers had gotten what they wanted.

But so had he. Slowly, Dewan tore his eyes from the ashes in front of him and opened the pack. As he'd hoped, there was food and water – enough for a few days, at least. More, if he was careful. Dewan sank down onto the floor and tried to eat a little. This was what he had come for. This was all he'd wanted. He hadn't wanted…

What? Hadn't wanted them to die? Hadn't wanted to kill one of the girls? Hadn't wanted to see the other one burned alive right in front of them? Maybe he hadn't wanted them dead, but, in the end, they had to die. If he wanted to go home, they all had to die. So why not now?

No, it wasn't the fact that they were dead. He'd killed his own allies, after all. Why should these two mean any more to him? Dewan glanced at the body of the girl who'd been waiting for him by the door. She'd attacked him. It had been his life or hers.

Just like Luke. Just like Natasha.

No, that wasn't the problem. He didn't feel _good _about killing her, but he could live with it.

_Anyone can kill when their life is on the line. You won't enjoy it, but I think you have it in you to be able to live with yourself afterwards._

Dewan shook his head. How long had it been? It seemed like ages since he had heard those words, since Mortimer had taken him aside on the train and told him that he'd chosen _him_, rather than Adrian and Simone. Mortimer had picked _him_ because he believed he had what it took to get out alive and live with it afterwards.

He'd occasionally doubted the first part – the part about getting out alive. He was one of thirty-six, after all. But now he was one of ... well, certainly less than that. Making it out alive was starting to seem like more and more of a possibility.

But living with it…

Luke. He could live with that. Luke had attacked him, too. Luke had been ready to kill him. Natasha had abandoned him when he'd needed her. Maybe he would have done the same thing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel sorry for pushing her out of that train car – not when he knew she would have done the same, given the chance. And the girl he had killed, the one who had attacked him – he'd needed those supplies. And she had struck first.

And he'd made it quick. She hadn't suffered. He'd done it because it was necessary, not because he was cruel or sadistic. He wasn't proud of that, but he could live with it.

But the other girl…

Dewan clenched his fists. He hadn't done that. The Gamemakers had. He'd just happened to be in the right place to see it happen. If he hadn't been, they would simply have chosen someone else. They would have used someone else.

He wished they had.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

_Who are you?_

Blythe watched the hallways pass by outside the train car. It seemed so long ago that she and Brennan had sat together on a very different train, and Silas had asked them such a seemingly innocent question. She hadn't been sure then. She was even less sure now – about herself, and about Brennan.

They certainly weren't who they had been – either of them. The Blythe she had been and the Brennan she had met – they never would have left Grace. Never would have let a friend sacrifice herself so that they could live a little longer. They wouldn't even have thought of it.

But that was the way they had to think now. Because that was the only way they were going to survive. Elaine was dead. Grace was probably dead. But they were still alive. They had to focus on that.

Maybe _who _they were now didn't matter – as long as that person was still breathing.

Because only twelve of them could say that now. Twelve tributes left. Just twelve.

And she was one of them.

And so was Brennan. Brennan, whom she had been certain she could trust, had just let two of their allies die. He'd chosen Elaine to guard the door by herself. He'd let Grace go back on her own. Maybe neither of them was his fault. Elaine had wanted to be chosen. Grace had run back on her own. But he hadn't done anything to stop them. He hadn't even tried.

How long before she was next?

She didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to consider the possibility that Brennan might leave her to die, just as he had left the other two. But what was the difference, really, between her and Elaine? Or between her and Grace? Yes, she and Brennan were from the same district. But, at this point, did that really mean anything? Or was she just another ally he would abandon to save his own skin?

Blythe clenched her fists. Maybe she wasn't being fair. After all, she'd done the same thing. She could have volunteered to guard the door instead of Elaine, but she hadn't. She could have insisted on going back for Grace, but she hadn't. What made her any different from Brennan? Was he thinking the same thing, wondering if some vague concept of district loyalty would stop her from abandoning him when the time came?

And would it?

Could she do it – leave him, if it meant saving her life? That was easier to imagine than the alternative – that she might eventually have to kill him. Maybe they could part ways before that could happen.

Then someone else could kill him.

Blythe choked back tears. A few hours ago, she wouldn't have had the heart to imagine him dying – whether at her hands or another's. But she would have said the same about Elaine and Grace. Now they were both gone.

How long before Brennan was next?

Blythe looked away. There were no good scenarios. No possibilities that turned out well. Either they could leave each other, or they could stay together until one of them died. Or one of them could kill the other.

She didn't want to kill him. She didn't want him to die at all. But she hadn't wanted Elaine and Grace to die, either. That hadn't stopped it from happening.

And, more than anything else, _she_ didn't want to be the one to die.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unfair. Maybe it was cruel or cowardly, but, for a moment, all she felt was relieved. Relieved that it _hadn't _been her. It had been Elaine. It had been Grace. Maybe in a little while, it would be Brennan. But it wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be.

Not if she could help it.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

_You can't protect her forever._

Brennan watched Blythe curiously as a look came over her face. A hard look. Determined. Almost fierce.

Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was. Maybe she'd realized it, too – how lucky they really were. Yes, Elaine was dead. Grace was dead. But it could have been worse.

It could have been him.

Because, in the end, only one of them could make it out alive. And, if he was being honest, he'd never wanted it to be Elaine, or Grace, or even Blythe.

He wanted it to be him.

He'd known, of course, that he didn't want to die. No one did. But maybe that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to just not want to die. Wasn't enough to simply run away from death. There was more. And he hadn't realized, until this moment, just how much he wanted to _live_.

Not just another few minutes. Not just another hour or another day in the arena. He didn't want to live _here_. He wanted to go home – home to District Twelve – and live a long, long life.

He would fight for that chance.

He would kill for that chance.

He'd killed, yes. But only because they'd needed food. Because, without it, they would all have starved to death. Both him and his allies. But this wasn't about them anymore. There was no 'them.' Alliances didn't win the Games. Tributes did.

"Brennan?" Blythe's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "How do you think we get it to stop?"

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the train car. He hadn't even thought about that. Hadn't wanted to think about it. As long as they were in here, they were safe – at least for a little while. As soon as they stepped out of those doors, the Games would begin again.

But maybe that was good. Because, in order for the Games to end, they had to keep going. They had to keep moving forward – no matter what. There was no going back. Not any more. There was only another day. Another death. Another cannon.

How long before the next cannon was Blythe's?

There were only twelve of them left, after all. Only twelve tributes. Sooner or later, he and Blythe would have to part ways. Or one of them would die. Or…

No. No, he couldn't think about that yet. Not when Elaine and Grace had just died. He couldn't think about the same thing happening to Blythe.

About _doing _the same thing to Blythe.

Because it had been his decision – his decision to tell Elaine to guard the door. His decision not to go back for Grace. Maybe he hadn't killed them himself, but he certainly hadn't done anything to stop them from dying. He had just run.

And so had Blythe. But he knew now that, if she hadn't, he would have left her, too. _Take care of her_, Grace had told him. But he already knew that was a promise he couldn't keep. Not forever. Not if he wanted to win.

Not if he wanted to live.

Suddenly, the train car screeched to a halt. The door slid open. In the dim lights coming from the car, Brennan thought he saw someone. Another tribute. Running the other way.

To his surprise, he didn't just feel relieved that the other person had run, that he wouldn't have to fight them. He felt … powerful. Someone was afraid – of him. Someone was running away from him and Blythe instead of the other way around.

Of course, whoever it was had no way of knowing who was in the train car. No way of knowing it was him and Blythe. But if they had … Would they still have run?

A part of him – a part of him that was starting to scare himself – hoped they would have.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

There was no telling who was in the train car.

Asteria gripped her piece of piping as she kept running down the hall, away from whoever – or _what_ever – might be coming after her. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe there wasn't anyone. The Gamemakers hadn't stopped her from running. Did that mean there hadn't been anything to run from?

Or were they hoping that, if she kept running, she would find someone else?

Asteria slowed down and turned down another hallway. If anyone was, in fact, following her, she had probably lost them by now. It was probably safe to rest for a while.

But only for a little while.

She couldn't rest too long. She needed to keep moving. She needed to find food, water, somewhere safer to rest – and not necessarily in that order. No, not in that order at all, in fact. Water had to come first. That's what they had been looking for, after all, when they'd found Dennar and his allies. There had been water there. A whole fountain of it.

But she didn't want to go back there.

Eventually, of course, she might not have a choice. But, while she did, she would rather go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere where she might not run into her allies.

_Former_ allies. She had run. She had left them. The alliance was off. Even if they might take her back, it would only mean leaving them again later. She didn't want to do that.

Once was enough.

But if that wasn't an option, then she needed to find another source of water – and soon. But where? The garden was the other way. The cornucopia was the other way. And there was no telling who was there now. No way of knowing whether there would be anyone there or not, if she tried to go back.

Maybe she should head back – back to the odd train car, at least. If there _were _tributes there, maybe they had supplies. Maybe there was something she could steal.

But if they _had _supplies, then they might be armed. There might be more than one of them. Could she take on more than one? Did she want to try?

Not when there was another option.

But was there?

She wished she could just ask – ask Crispin where, if anywhere, there was water nearby. But they'd tried that once, and it had nearly gotten them all killed.

No. Not 'them.' There was no 'them' – not anymore. Asking for water had nearly gotten _her_ killed. The rest of what had happened … maybe it didn't matter. It wasn't a risk she wanted to take again.

But it _had_ led them to water.

And she didn't really have any better ideas.

Asteria gripped her pipe, hoping that this wasn't a huge mistake. "I want to find water."

Lights. Dim brown lights, pointing the way. Hesitantly, Asteria followed. One step. Then another. The lights were leading to a room. Cautiously, Asteria took a step inside.

Something – some_one_ – jumped up on the other side of the room, startled. Another tribute. Asteria raised her piece of pipe, but she could already see that the other tribute was armed with some sort of dagger. But she looked afraid – almost as afraid as Asteria.

"What do you want?" a voice demanded. A girl's voice.

Asteria mustered her courage. "I was looking for food. And water. Give me what you have, and I'll let you live." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

To her surprise, the other girl laughed – a light, bitter laugh. "I don't have anything to give you. No food. No water. I don't have anything for you to steal." She took a step closer.

"But I know who does."

* * *

**Corvo Arion, 17  
****District Ten**

Something was wrong.

Corvo could tell that much the moment the shape entered the room. The girl again – that much was obvious. But she wasn't trying to hide. Wasn't even making an attempt at being subtle.

She must have known he'd be watching for her. He'd known she would be desperate, but he hadn't realized she'd be desperate enough to attack so openly. Maybe it was a show of confidence – for the audience, for the sponsors. She must be desperate for sponsors by now, if she was resorting to this.

But it still felt off. As she stepped into the room, her confidence seemed genuine, unforced. Corvo gripped his piece of piping. Maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe, at the moment, all that mattered was that she was charging.

The girl swung, but he avoided the blow easily. She circled around and swung again. Again he dodged. He caught the next blow on his pipe, and the next, turning towards his opponent, towards the center of the room. She swung again – almost lazily. Almost as if she wasn't trying to hit him. Almost as if…

Pain shot through Corvo's back as something sliced into his skin – something from behind. Corvo turned in surprise to see another girl, a knife in her hand. The knife was dripping red with blood. His blood.

He didn't have time to think. The girl with the dagger struck again, this time with all her force behind the blow. The blade sliced deep into Corvo's shoulder before he had time to react. He swung blindly with his pipe. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

This wasn't how he was supposed to die.

He was supposed to avenge them. His parents. Bakaari. He was supposed to see that justice was done.

He swung again, but the girl was ready. She dodged the blow and brought her dagger down with all her might. Corvo cried out as pain coursed through his right wrist. His right hand.

No, what _used_ to be his right hand.

Corvo stared in shock as the pipe clattered to the floor, his fingers still wrapped around the end. He sank to his knees, blood gushing from his wrist. The girl with the dagger pounced, sending him sprawling onto his back. Soon, she was on top of him. The dagger came down towards his chest, but he managed to catch her wrist in his left hand. But the other girl – the girl with the knife – had picked up the piece of pipe.

He couldn't stop them both.

The pipe struck his head, and everything started to go dark. With his left hand, he reached for the girl's throat. If he had to die, maybe he could take her with him. Maybe…

But the moment he let go of her wrist, the dagger plunged into his chest. The weight left his chest as the girl scrambled off, pulling the dagger out, her hands coated in blood. Corvo closed his eyes, every beat of his heart pumping life out of his body. The last thing he heard was one of the girls' icy voices.

"I suppose it's our turn."

* * *

**Simone Lorance, 18  
****District Two**

It was never going to be a lengthy alliance.

Simone took a few steps back. "I suppose it's our turn." Her voice was cold and – she hoped – more confident than she felt. She and her temporary ally eyed each other. She didn't even know the girl's name. She hadn't asked. Neither of them had. Neither of them had said it, but there had been an unspoken understanding between the two of them: As soon as the boy from Ten was gone – as soon as the supplies were no longer guarded – the alliance was over.

The only question now was whether to fight or grab what she could and flee.

The other girl was probably wondering the same thing. Wondering which of them would win a fight – and what it would cost. They could split up the supplies. Go their separate ways. They owed each other nothing, but, by the same token, they had no reason to fight.

No reason except the fact that the number of tributes was dwindling. Sooner or later, this girl would have to die. Why not now? They were both a bit winded from the fight, but neither had been seriously hurt. The girl was about her size. They were on relatively equal footing, which was probably the best she could hope for in a fight. And the audience…

The audience would want them to fight. Fight each other or continue to fight as allies. The latter had never been an option – not really. They had fought together, but there was no way they could trust each other for long.

And there was no third option. No walking away. Not if she wanted to keep up the image the audience had of her by now. The image she hoped they had. She'd run before, but only from a stronger opponent. And now she had three kills. She'd taken three steps closer to going home.

Now was as good a time as any for number four.

The boy's cannon sounded, and Simone charged. The girl, of course, wasn't a fool. She'd been expecting the attack, and raised the piece of piping she'd taken from the boy. Dagger struck pipe, and Simone swung again – harder.

She could see the other girl eyeing the door. But Simone knew she wouldn't run. She'd come for supplies. She wouldn't leave without them. Neither of them would. Neither of them could.

So one of them wouldn't leave at all.

Simone swung again, but she knew they were both tiring. Neither of them was used to this. Neither of them had trained for this. Neither of them really had any idea what they were doing. She'd tried to play at being a Career, but now, there was nowhere to hide her lack of skill. Her blows were growing clumsy, her arms getting heavy. But the other girl was just as tired. Just as unprepared.

She just had to last a little longer. Just a little longer than the other girl. She just had to swing one more time than the girl could block it. Just had to say _yes_ one more time than the other girl could say _no_.

Simone heaved another breath and swung as hard as she could. With the boy, she'd had an ace up her sleeve. She'd simply had to draw him into Asteria's path. But now there was no secret, no advantage, nothing she could use against her opponent.

Except what they had just done.

Simone circled around and swung, driving the girl backwards. Back towards the boy's body. Back to where the blood covered the floor, wet and warm.

And slippery.

Simone lunged, and the other girl took a step backwards, losing her balance and nearly falling. That moment was all Simone needed. She struck where the girl wouldn't be expecting, plunging her dagger deep into her opponent's leg.

But, even as she did, the other girl grabbed Simone's arm, pulling her to the floor along with her. The other girl cried out in pain but didn't let go. Simone could feel her arm twisting as they fell, her hand still gripping the dagger even as the weight of the girl's body landed on it, pinning her arm.

Leaving her defenseless.

The pipe swung, striking her head hard, and Simone could feel her grip on the dagger loosening against her will. One more blow, and she let go completely. The pipe swung again, sending a splintering pain through her skull. Her head was spinning. Everything was starting to blur.

She barely saw the dagger coming down towards her chest.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

Barclay still hadn't woken up.

Alasdair sat quietly as Mercury continued to pace around the fountain. "That's two," she muttered quietly. "One more. Maybe I can make it there before then."

Alasdair looked up. "Make it where? Before what?"

Mercury turned, startled. Maybe she hadn't realized she'd said it aloud. "To the cornucopia – while it's still dark. The lights go on and off with every three cannons. So we've got one more until they come back on. If I can get there while it's still dark, I'll have a better chance of not being seen."

What?

She was planning on going back?

It made some sense, now that he thought about it. Barclay was getting worse. There might be something at the cornucopia that could help him. But, then again, there might not be. She could be risking her life for nothing.

But who was he to tell her not to?

He was the newcomer to the alliance, after all. She and Barclay were friends. They were close. Of course she would want to try to save him. Alasdair swallowed hard, working up his courage. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Mercury stared, clearly surprised he would even offer. After thinking it over for a moment, however, she shook her head. "No. No, we can't leave him here alone. Not like this. You should stay. Take care of him."

Alasdair nodded, wondering what, exactly, she was expecting him to be able to do if something happened. Did she really think he would be able to protect Barclay if another tribute attacked, or if the mutts returned? Or did she simply not want him along? Did she think he would be a burden? That one person alone would have a better chance of not being seen?

Or was she trying to protect him?

Alasdair studied Mercury's face as well as he could in the odd blue glow of the fountain. But her expression was impossible to read. She was worried – that much was plain – but beyond that … nothing. She was a mystery.

"All right," Alasdair said at last. "Be careful."

Empty words, and she knew it as well as he did. There was no 'careful' in the Games – certainly not at this point. There were only ten of them left. Any number of tributes could be at the cornucopia, waiting for her. There was a chance – maybe even a good chance – that she wouldn't be coming back.

But, all the same, he understood why she had to try.

Barclay had saved her life, just as Dennar had saved his. If he was in her position – if Dennar was alive and were the one in need of help – he would do the same thing.

Wouldn't he?

As he watched Mercury slip off into the shadows, Alasdair couldn't help wondering if that was true. Not so long ago, it would have been. He'd been willing – determined – to sacrifice himself to save someone else. To make his death mean something. Not he wasn't so sure.

What if he wanted to be the one to live?

* * *

**Vester Pierce  
****District Two Mentor**

This was why he had stopped mentoring.

Vester finished his drink, trying to ignore Mortimer, who was sitting next to him, watching the screen intently. It was only a matter of time before he said it. Before he said what they both knew he wanted to.

"All right," Vester sighed. "Spit it out."

Mortimer didn't need to be told twice. "This is why we have the Career system."

Vester nodded along. "To save people like Simone?"

To Vester's surprise, however, Mortimer shook his head. "No. To _train _people like Simone. She thought like a Career, right up until the very end. Backing Asteria into a slippery spot on the floor – that was clever. Very clever. But she didn't have the faintest idea how Asteria would react to that, or what to do afterwards, or how to avoid being tripped up herself. Only _experience _can teach you that – and that's what we give tributes."

"You turn them into killers."

"She did that herself. She turned _herself _into a killer. Because that's what you have to be to win the Games. That drive, that ambition, that lethality – it can't be taught. That came from her. Imagine what she could have done if she'd had the skills to back it up."

Vester turned his attention back to his drink. On some level, of course, Mortimer wasn't wrong. The Career system had flourished so quickly for a single reason: It worked. There was no denying that. Careers were stronger, more ruthless, more prepared. They always had a better chance.

But that didn't outweigh the cost. Didn't outweigh the fact that hundreds of teenagers were being brainwashed, trained to kill without mercy or remorse, lied to about the reality of the Games – and life after the Games. They were fed a lie – a lie about honor and glory for the rest of their lives, at the cost of the lives of twenty-three others.

Most didn't even think about the cost – the real cost – until it was too late. Didn't realize that the real cost was their humanity, their conscience, their dignity. And he was as bad as the rest of them – maybe worse – but even he hadn't _chosen _the Games. He hadn't chosen to be there any more than Simone had.

Vester waved to Alistern for another drink, which the bartender quickly supplied. Maybe it didn't matter anymore – who was right, who was wrong. Simone was dead. And he was done. Not just for this year, but forever. He was done mentoring. He had enough blood on his hands – the blood of those he had killed, and the blood of those he hadn't been able to save.

She would be the last.

* * *

"_We are all slaves to our histories. If there is to be a … bright future, we must learn to break those chains."_


	38. Listen to the Music

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the "final four" poll are up on the blog. New poll on my profile, this time asking who (if anyone) you're surprised to see make it this far. As usual, **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

* * *

**Day Five  
****Listen to the Music**

* * *

**Sabine Plecity  
****District Five Mentor**

"One more."

Sabine glanced over at Harakuise, who was clearly just waiting for her to ask for an explanation. She hated it when he did that – said something vague, waited for someone to ask what it meant. Sometimes, she was sure he just liked listening to himself talk. Other times, she thought maybe she was just a sounding board for ideas. That he talked to her because he knew that she couldn't resist asking for an explanation, that she hated an unsolved riddle almost as much as he did.

"All right," Sabine sighed. "I'll bite. One more what?"

Harakuise smiled a little, satisfied. "One more tribute."

"Until what? The lights come back on?"

"Well, that, too, I suppose. Not what I meant, though. One more tribute, and there will only be nine left."

"So?" Nine wasn't a particularly significant number. Ten seemed more important, more of a roadmark.

Harakuise shook his head. "It's just something Ryzer said during the interviews. _Three times three to make up nine_. What if she was on to something? Three's been an important number so far. Three tributes per district. Three cannons to change the lights. So three times three – maybe that's important, too."

Sabine nodded. That made some sense. "So what happens when there are only nine tributes left?"

"Exactly."

"No, I was asking. What happens?"

"I don't know," Harakuise admitted, drumming his fingers on the table. "That's the problem. I don't like not knowing."

Sabine couldn't help smiling. He was like this every year – trying to figure out what the Gamemakers would do next, what they had planned. At first, she'd thought he simply wanted to know so he could help the tributes be prepared for what was coming. But, two years ago, both tributes from Five had died in the bloodbath, and Harakuise had still spent the entire Games trying to work out what would happen next.

"Well, you probably won't have to wait long," Sabine offered. Mercury was headed for the cornucopia. Cassandra and Ryzer were prowling the halls on the other side. It was only a matter of time before they were forced together. Part of her hoped Mercury would have enough sense to run, but part of her was afraid the Gamemakers wouldn't let her.

Could she take on both of them?

So far, Ryzer and Cassandra hadn't faced a fair fight. They'd caught Radiance off-guard while she was running away from another pack, and Daedem had already been badly hurt. Then again, Mercury hadn't done much in the way of fighting, either. Her allies, yes. But Kinley was dead, Barclay was injured, Alasdair was in the garden with him, and Asteria was on the other side of the station.

Mercury was on her own.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

She was on her own.

Mercury gripped the piece of piping Barclay had given her in one hand and Kinley's knife in the other. She wished one of them was with her now. Barclay, Kinley – even Alasdair. But Kinley was dead. Barclay was hurt. And Alasdair…

Should she have brought him along? She hadn't even thought of it until he had offered. Why would he want to risk his life for Barclay? They hadn't been allies very long. He didn't know Barclay very well. And yet he'd still offered to come.

And she had said no.

Part of her still wasn't sure why. Yes, she had told him to stay and protect Barclay. But if something happened, what would he really be able to do? He would probably run the other way at the first sign of trouble, and she couldn't really bring herself to blame him for that. Alasdair didn't owe Barclay anything. Not like she did.

But if she'd brought him … Would he have been able to help? Or would he simply have gotten in the way? And if they'd left Barclay alone…

No. No, that wouldn't help – second-guessing herself now. She'd had her chance to let him come along. She had said no. That was all there was to it. The reason didn't really matter now. It was done.

And she was almost there.

Mercury took a deep breath as she crept closer and closer to the door in front of her. Any moment now, she would find out who – if anyone – was waiting for her at the cornucopia. A few minutes from now, she might be…

Mercury leaned back against the wall outside the door, trying to breathe as quietly as she could, trying not to make a sound despite her heart pounding in her ears. She didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this. Maybe she could turn around. Maybe she could go back.

But it was too late for that. She had come this far. The Gamemakers wouldn't let her simply turn around, the same way they hadn't let anyone run from the garden. She had to get what she came for – or die trying.

Or die trying.

Mercury took a step forward and peeked into the room. She could see shapes – dark shapes, throughout the room. But none of them moved. None of them showed any signs of life. Hesitantly, Mercury took a few steps towards the nearest shape. It still didn't move. In fact, it looked almost…

Dead. Only a few feet away now, Mercury realized she was staring into the cold, lifeless eyes of her district partner, Mirami. The body was propped up against one of the tables. As she circled the room, Mercury realized the others were the same. All dead. Mirami. Niles. Calissa, the other girl from Four – Kinley and Barclay's district partner. Others she didn't recognize immediately and didn't want to spend the time it would take to figure it out.

Mercury gripped her weapons tightly. Someone was here – or if not here, then somewhere nearby. The bodies hadn't been placed like this by accident. Someone had done this. Someone was using them – using the dead to try to scare away the living.

But it wasn't going to work. She was here for a reason. The dead weren't going to stop her from getting what she had come here for.

She could only hope the living wouldn't, either.

* * *

**Cassandra Sake, 17  
****District Six**

It was about time.

Cassandra grinned at Ryzer, who was nodding towards the cornucopia room. Whoever was inside was making a considerable effort to be quiet, but they still couldn't hide the sound of their footsteps, the soft rustling of someone sifting through the supplies, looking for something. Probably food and water. Maybe weapons.

Which was why they had to be careful. There was no way of knowing how many people were in the room, or what sort of condition they were in. Chances were, they'd already found the weapons. So they would be armed.

Cassandra turned to Ryzer. "Me first?" the other girl mouthed hopefully, grinning widely. Cassandra nodded her consent. If there _was _someone dangerous inside, maybe it was better to let Ryzer go first. She didn't want Ryzer to get herself killed, either, but, if it was going to be one of them…

But, as Ryzer stepped into the room, it quickly became clear that it wasn't going to be either of them. A scream from the other side of the room gave away both the other tribute's position and her terror. A girl's scream. Cassandra smiled and joined Ryzer, dagger in hand. Ryzer gripped her hand sickle tightly. Their prey was somewhere. Somewhere close.

There was a quiet rustling from near the bar counter. Then a scuffling. A tribute. Only one. Knowing she'd been heard, but hoping she hadn't been seen. Hoping she could still get away.

And she might have, if not for their night vision glasses. Her initial fear contained, the girl was moving very slowly, very quietly. Crawling along the floor. Injured, or just trying to be quiet? No, definitely injured. Her movements were limp, favoring one side. Probably why she had been desperate enough to come back to the cornucopia. Desperate enough to risk her life.

But not desperate enough to fight for it. Or simply too weak to do so. Easy prey.

Almost too easy.

The girl turned, horrified, as Cassandra and Ryzer approached, but she still didn't stand up. Maybe she couldn't. "Please," she whimpered. "Please. Just let me go. I don't want to fight you."

Cassandra shook her head. She didn't want to fight her, either. Didn't want to fight someone so pitiful. She was one of the younger girls – District Five, maybe? Clearly, it was sheer luck that she'd made it this far.

But no farther. Cassandra didn't want to fight her, but, fortunately, this wasn't a fight. It was a hunt. It made no difference that their prey was injured and scared. No difference at all. Cassandra glanced at Ryzer, who nodded towards the injured girl. It was her turn.

Cassandra gripped her dagger.

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

She saw it too late.

Ryzer screamed as she saw the girl tense. It was a tension she'd seen so many times – the tension of a cat about to spring. About to pounce. "Cassandra!" she shouted, hoping her warning would come soon enough.

But it was too late.

As Cassandra's dagger came down, the girl sprang up, a knife in her hand – a knife she had been hiding somewhere. Perhaps in her sleeve, perhaps in one of her pockets. The knife sank deep into Cassandra's chest before she had the chance to react. Cassandra sank to the floor, the dagger clattering from her grasp.

Everything happened at once. The cannon sounded. The lights came on – not dim like before, but bright and blazing. And, from somewhere in the arena, there came a noise – a strange humming, almost like music.

Exactly like music.

For a moment, they stood there, the pair of them. Ryzer and the girl from Five, not injured at all, her knife covered in Cassandra's blood. Ryzer's glance strayed to her fallen friend. Then to the other bodies around her. In that moment, the girl charged.

And Ryzer ran.

The girl didn't follow her out the blue door. Maybe she'd been hoping Ryzer would run, hoping to simply scare her off from a fight. And it had worked.

For the first time in the arena, Ryzer was afraid.

Cassandra was dead. Just like that. No warning, no long struggle, no real chance to defend herself. She was just gone. And if Cassandra could die so suddenly, so pointlessly, anyone could be next.

_She_ could be next.

She had thought she was ready for that. Thought she was as ready to face her own death as anyone else's. But, now that the moment was real, she wasn't just afraid. She was terrified. Cassandra was gone, lying cold and dead on the floor of the cornucopia room…

No, she couldn't think about that. She didn't _want _to think about that. She had to think about something else. Something else. Anything else.

The music.

Without thinking, she ran towards the music. Towards the odd, humming tone that was coming from somewhere down the hallway. Somewhere just a little farther ahead.

Just a little farther.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

He thought he heard music.

That was the first thing Barclay noticed as he came to. The second was the light – brighter than before, almost blinding. The third was an odd smell, a smell he couldn't quite place.

The fourth thing was Alasdair frantically shaking his shoulder, calling his name. "Barclay! Barclay, wake up! We have to go!"

Go? Go where? Where was Kinley? No. No, he reminded himself. Kinley was dead. And Asteria was gone. But Mercury – she should still be here. Where was she?

"Mercury?" He barely managed to whisper her name. "Where's Mercury?"

"She left," Alasdair answered frantically. "She went back to the cornucopia – to get medicine for you. That was a couple hours ago – at least. And there was a cannon. Might have been hers – I don't know. But we have to go _now_!"

"Why?"

"Because of the gas!"

Gas? So that was the smell. Barclay smiled a little. So much fuss over nothing. The little boy really needed to calm down. "So put on a gas mask."

Alasdair stared, as if he'd gone insane. "What? Do you just _happen_ to have some?"

Barclay nodded. "Have a look around. I'm sure Mercury put them somewhere."

The boy scurried about for a moment, then apparently found them, because Barclay felt something slide over his face. The gas mask whirred to life, and Alasdair came into view again. "All right for now, but these won't last forever. We have to get out of here!"

Barclay shook his head weakly, his voice muffled a little by the mask. "We should wait … Mercury's coming back … She's coming back for us."

Alasdair shook his head. "And how do you think she'll feel if she comes back to find two dead bodies because we choked to death because we didn't want to leave. Come on! We'll head for the cornucopia. Maybe we'll meet up with her on the way back, if she's still…"

The boy didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. _If she's still alive_. Mercury might be dead. The cannon that the boy said had fired – it could have been hers. If she was gone, then it was just them. Alasdair might be the only ally he had left.

So they should stay together.

Slowly, painfully, fighting the dizziness and the lightheadedness – maybe a result of the gas or maybe simply his injury getting worse – Barclay struggled to his feet. Alasdair did his best to steady him, but Barclay tried not to lean too hard on the smaller boy. Together, the two of them made their way out of the garden and into the hallway, towards the music. Barclay stumbled a little, leaning against the wall for balance, hoping they wouldn't have to go too far before Mercury found them, hoping they wouldn't have to walk all the way to the cornucopia.

He wasn't sure he could make it that far.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She was too tired to worry about the music.

Asteria leaned back against one of the shelves of boxes, trying to work up the motivation to move enough to reach some of the food. She'd already removed the dagger from her left leg and bandaged it as well as she could with the strips of cloth she'd been able to find, but she'd lost a lot of blood before she'd finally gotten the wound under control. She wasn't just tired; she was exhausted.

Which was even more of a reason to eat something. Or at least drink something. Slowly, gritting her teeth against the pain, she dragged herself along the floor to where it looked like there were some bottles of water. Every movement sent pain shooting through her leg, but when she finally poured the water in her mouth, it was almost worth it. Almost worth what she'd done to get it.

What she'd done. Asteria's gaze strayed to the two bodies on the floor. Dead. She had killed them. She had killed them both.

And she almost didn't care.

She hadn't really known the girl. Hadn't even asked her name. The other girl hadn't asked, either. Maybe she'd figured it would be easier to kill someone when she didn't know their name.

Maybe she was right.

Asteria shook her head. This was certainly no worse than what she'd already done. No worse than killing Dennar, whom she _had _known. What made these two any different?

And yet they were different. They had fought back. Dennar had simply leapt in the way. He had _let _her kill him. Almost as if he didn't mind, as long as his ally was safe. Almost as if he'd _wanted_ her to kill him.

These two hadn't wanted it. They'd fought for every moment, every breath. She had won, but they'd made it hard. They'd made her bleed for it. And now she was injured, too. If she died now, it would be their doing. Their fault.

No. No, she wouldn't give them that satisfaction. That was what they'd wanted – to bring her down with them. But she wouldn't let them. She wouldn't let them win.

Asteria ate a little dried fruit and lay down to rest. She didn't want to – didn't want to fall asleep like this, unprotected, vulnerable. But what choice did she have? She would have to sleep eventually. If she was going to heal, she needed to rest – regardless of the risk. And there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere that would be safer.

So she lay down quietly in a corner, out of sight, hoping that, if anyone stumbled in the door, they would see the two bodies and assume that the former occupants of the room had killed each other. Then they could simply take what they wanted and go. Hopefully, they wouldn't stay. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to fight.

Not for a while, at least.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

Every time.

Dewan groaned and rolled over. It seemed like every time he decided to try to rest, the lights came back on. Was that what was controlling them, maybe? Did the Gamemakers turn them on and off based on how many tributes were trying to get some rest? Probably not, but it certainly seemed like it.

He sat up slowly, trying to ignore the humming in his head. No, not _in _his head. The noise _had_ gotten louder – a strange, loud humming noise coming from somewhere in the arena.

Either that, or he was losing it.

Dewan sighed. The second option wouldn't exactly surprise him now. He had food and water, yes. He'd made his way back to the medical lab in the purple section and bandaged his leg as well as he could. The girl's knife didn't seem to have struck anything important, but his leg still ached. And he needed sleep.

But how was he supposed to sleep if they kept switching the lights on?

Dewan rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the lights seemed brighter than before. Was that supposed to mean something? Something important? Or did they just seem brighter because he was tired?

Probably the second one.

Dewan drank a little of the sterilized water and ate a few crackers. If they weren't going to let him sleep, he might as well keep up his strength. And he had no reason to leave the purple section – not yet. Surely they wouldn't expect anything more from him so soon.

Unless there were only a few of them left.

Was that what the lights meant? Did that mean the finale was close? It certainly felt like it. He no longer had any real idea of how many tributes were left, but it couldn't be that many. The pair from twelve had run from him and the mutts, but there had been a few cannons since then. Maybe those had been theirs.

Maybe they _were _near the end.

Or maybe not. The Gamemakers hadn't shown any signs of corralling them together. Maybe there hadn't been as many cannons as he'd thought. Or maybe they were waiting for him to do something.

Dewan rubbed his eyes again. He was tired of 'doing something.' He'd spent the whole Games trying to do something, trying to make some headway, trying to get to the end. And where had it gotten him? Sure, he was still alive, but, right now, he didn't _feel _any closer to going home than when he had run from the cornucopia after killing Luke.

He wasn't even sure what he _did _feel anymore, except tired. Very tired. But not hungry or thirsty. So that was something. And, now that he'd left the domed room, now that he'd distanced himself from the body of the girl from One and the ashes of the girl from Ten, he didn't feel quite so … guilty? No, he had never really felt guilty for that. But whatever it was he had felt, most of it was gone now. He didn't feel anything. He just felt numb. He just felt tired.

He just wanted it to be over.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

"Do you hear that?"

Blythe glanced at Brennan. "Hear what?" The lights had come back on – brighter than before – and the station's humming had grown louder, but that was it. What did he hear?

Brennan shook his head. "Listen. You don't hear that?"

She listened, but she still didn't hear anything. "What?"

"The singing."

Blythe cocked an eyebrow. Listening closely to the humming, she could see how it might _sound_ like singing. But she was still pretty sure it was just the station's noise – just a bit louder than before. "I don't hear any singing."

Brennan shook his head impatiently. "What if it's a message? What if the Gamemakers are trying to tell us something? I think we should follow it."

What?

Hadn't he been paying attention? Hadn't he seen what the Gamemakers had done so far, what the mutts had done? If the Gamemakers wanted to lead them somewhere, that was the last place they should think about going. Blythe shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Come on," Brennan insisted. "If there's singing, there might be people. And if there are people, there might be food, and if—"

"And if there are people and food, there might be people who will _kill_ us over that food," Blythe pointed out.

Brennan shrugged a little. "Who knows? We might be the ones to kill _them_ over it. It wouldn't be the first time."

"You said—" He'd said the pair from Seven had attacked _them_. Had he and Grace started the fight?

"And you believed it, too," Brennan pointed out. "Wanted to believe that I wasn't capable of making the first move. But I am. I have to be. And now I'm saying we should follow that sound. Are you with me?"

Blythe stared. What had happened to him? This wasn't like Brennan at all.

But how would she know? She'd known him for … what? A week? Maybe two, by now. How did she know what he was really like? For all she knew, he'd been acting the whole time, and this was really him. Or maybe the others' death had shaken him harder than she'd thought. Maybe he'd simply lost it.

Blythe shook her head. "No."

"No?" Brennan repeated.

"No. I'm not with you. You want to follow some strange humming sound you think is music? Fine. But you can do it without me."

Brennan's gaze hardened. "Are you sure?"

Blythe nodded. "Yes."

Brennan clenched his fists. "Then go."

"Go?"

"Go. I'll go this way. You go that way. We part ways, and we don't look back. It has to happen eventually, and now's as good a time as any. I'm giving you a chance to go without a fight, so go." He smiled a little – a hard, dangerous smile.

"Before I change my mind."

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

He'd never seen anyone run so fast.

Brennan watched as Blythe ran away – faster, he thought for a moment, than she had run from the mutts. He waited. Waited until she was gone. Waited until she was far enough away.

Then he sank to the floor, leaned back against the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

_Take care of her_, Grace had said. But he couldn't. So he'd done the next best thing. He'd let her go. And, more than that, he'd given her a reason to go. A reason to leave. A reason for them to part ways, and make it seem like an act of generosity that the parting had been peaceful.

It wasn't the best scenario, but it was better than the alternatives. Better than fighting her. Better than staying together until she died in front of him. He didn't want to see that. He'd never wanted to see that.

Brennan closed his eyes. Listening to the station humming now, it almost _did _sound like music. Hopefully, he'd been convincing enough. Blythe would think he'd lost it. She wouldn't even think about coming back. About trying to find him. And if their paths crossed again…

Then what?

Maybe she would even strike first. Then he could defend himself. He was pretty sure he could do that – kill her if she struck first. But if she didn't…

No. No, he didn't want to think about that. Chances were, they would never see each other again. It was a big station. She had run one way; he would make sure to go the other, once he found the motivation to move again. The chances of them finding each other again were slim.

Brennan started to push himself to his feet, only to be stopped by a sudden, sharp surge of pain in his right wrist. "Damn it," he muttered, dropping back to the floor and clutching his wrist tightly, as if that would stop the pain. It didn't. Brennan sighed. Maybe he should just stay here a while and rest. Maybe…

Just as he was starting to close his eyes, however, a flicker of motion caught his eye. Something skittering across the floor, off to his right – the opposite direction from the way Blythe had gone. A rat? A mouse? Something small and furry – and alive. Brennan scrambled to his feet. If it was alive, then maybe he could eat it.

As long as he could catch it.

Brennan took a step forward, and the creature – definitely a rat – scampered off. Brennan followed, all thought of pain forgotten. The walls around him turned from grey to brown, and he barely noticed. That didn't matter now. All that mattered was that, in a moment, he could have food.

The rat scurried down a hallway – a dead end. Brennan followed. The hallway was scattered with debris – piping, broken pieces of wood. Brennan snatched up a pipe and lunged at the frightened creature in the corner. It was a clumsy blow with his left hand, but the pipe found the rat's head, nonetheless, and blood splattered up. The rat twitched for a moment, then went still.

Brennan reached for the tiny, fur-covered body. It was small – only a few mouthfuls, at best – but there might be more, hiding in the walls, where none of them had thought to look. For a moment, he hesitated. Thought about calling for Blythe. Maybe there would be enough for her, too.

No. No, he had let her go for a reason – a reason that went beyond the fear of not finding enough food for both of them. Sooner or later, she would have to die. It wasn't his job to protect her – not anymore. His job – his _only _job – was to protect himself. To get himself out of this alive.

Brennan tore open the rat and took a big bite.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

At first, he thought the singing was part of a dream.

Lynher slowly opened his eyes. It _sounded _like singing. Or, at least, it had a few moments ago, when he was still half-asleep. Now it sounded like the station humming again – only louder than before. The lights, too, seemed brighter.

Or maybe it was just his imagination.

It was gone now – the singing. But, for a moment, it had seemed so peaceful. So beautiful.

Slowly, Lynher got up and headed over to the faucet to fill his water bottles. It hadn't taken him long to discover that the room had running water. He still had one full bottle, and the other was about a quarter full, but, if he had to leave in a hurry, he didn't want to have to stop and fill them then. Better to be prepared in case something happened.

Because something was sure to happen eventually. The other tributes and the Gamemakers had left him alone for a while, and he'd used the opportunity to get some rest. But it wouldn't last forever. When something _did_ happen, he wanted to be ready. He turned the handle.

But nothing happened.

Lynher frowned. No water. He turned the other one – still, nothing happened. But why? What had he done wrong? He hadn't done anything.

Maybe that was the point. He hadn't done anything – not since leaving the cornucopia. Maybe Daedem's idea had been right all along. Maybe they had to keep _doing _something. Maybe the Gamemakers had decided he'd sat there long enough.

At least he still had a full water bottle, though. And he still had food. He could stay here for a while yet.

But what if this was a hint? What if they were trying to tell him to leave, to go do something, before they had to _make_ him leave? Wouldn't it be better to leave on his own?

"All right, all right," Lynher mumbled crossly. "I get it." He stuffed the food and water back into his pack, gathered up his weapons, and stepped out into the hall.

Just in time to see the girl disappear.

Lynher stared after her, surprised. He was pretty sure she hadn't seen him. Maybe he could pretend not to have seen her. He didn't want to chase after her. Whoever she was, she was probably scared. Tired. She might even be running from someone. Maybe he should just duck back inside the room. She would never know.

But the audience would.

He was well-rested. He had food and weapons. He was in about as good a condition as a tribute could ask for in the arena. And there weren't that many of them left. If he passed up the chance now – the chance to make that number one less – what would the audience think of him?

But if he took it, what would he think of himself?

Lynher gripped his dagger. There was a third option. He could pretend to follow her – long enough to convince the audience that he was trying to catch her, but not long enough to actually do so. Letting her go was one thing. But if he lost her … Well, they couldn't really hold that against him, could they? Not when he clearly had no experience with this sort of thing.

Lynher smiled a little, and the chase began.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He wasn't sure how much farther Barclay could go.

Alasdair stumbled a little as the older boy began to lean more heavily on him. They were both doing the best they could, but it clearly wasn't enough. Once they'd left the garden, a door had closed, sealing the gas inside. They'd taken the gas masks off, and now Alasdair was carrying them both. But Barclay still looked like he was about to collapse.

Maybe they should have stayed there. Waited there for Mercury to come back. But he'd wanted to keep moving. The gas was a message: The garden wasn't safe for them anymore. He'd figured they should get as far away as possible.

He hadn't even thought to grab any food, Alasdair realized as he and Barclay trudged along. He'd been so focused on getting out – and getting Barclay out – that he hadn't really given any thought to what would happen once they left.

Now he wished he'd brought something. Food, water, anything. But it was all he could do to carry the two gas masks and try to keep Barclay going. Any extra weight would just slow them down.

Extra weight.

Just then, Barclay took a bad step, lurching forward suddenly and tumbling to the ground. Alasdair toppled beside him, exhausted. "Okay," he gasped. "Okay. New plan. You … stay here and rest. I'll keep going. I'll get Mercury. We'll come back for you."

Barclay smiled absently. "No, you won't. But that's all right. You go ahead. Go find Mercury." He closed his eyes.

Alasdair gritted his teeth. "I _will _come back for you. I promise."

The words left him before he'd realized what he said. But he was surprised to find that he meant it. No matter what he found up ahead – whether he found Mercury, or whether Mercury was already dead – he could think of no reason why he wouldn't want to come back for Barclay.

After dropping the gas masks by Barclay's side, Alasdair took off down the hall, hoping he was still going the right way. Hoping the cornucopia was still ahead. They hadn't turned around, as far as he knew. But the hallways had occasionally curved. Was he still going the right way? "Just get to the cornucopia," he muttered. "Just get me to the cornucopia."

Suddenly, lights began to flash.

Alasdair nearly jumped. First a loud humming, and now red, flashing lights – in the direction he was running. Did that mean he should keep going? Or that he should turn around? What was waiting for him up there?

Alasdair took a deep breath and kept going. If the Gamemakers wanted to send something after him – if they were trying to kill him – they could do that no matter which way he ran. So he might as well keep his promise. He might as well keep moving forwards.

Suddenly, in front of him, he saw a green door. A green door like the one he, Dennar, and Enzo had run through during the bloodbath. It seemed so long ago. How long had it been? Days? Weeks?

Alasdair crept closer and peeked inside the door. He could see a shape. A tribute, rummaging through the supplies at the cornucopia. He must have made some sort of noise, because the tribute looked up, startled. Alasdair grinned. "Mercury!"

Even as he said it, a panel opened in the ceiling, and a parachute floated down.

* * *

**President Richmond Hyde**

"Don't you ever sleep?"

Hyde took a sip of coffee, shrugging, as Helius continued fiddling with the switches in front of him. "Not much during the Games," he admitted. "You?"

Helius shook his head. "Not much. We take shifts, but I'm always on call in case something happens." He glanced up. "You've got a question."

Hyde smirked. "How could you tell?"

"You're here," Helius shrugged. "The three tributes on your list are dead – and the last one quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself. So it can't be that. But you're here, so it's a good bet you've got a question."

Hyde nodded. "The music – what is it?"

"What music?" Helius asked innocently.

"The music you've mixed in with the station's humming. Just quiet enough in the background that you can't hear it unless you're listening for it, but it's there. Some of the tributes hear it, too. But others just hear the humming. So … What is it?"

"Just music," Helius admitted. "An odd chanting that I thought was particularly unsettling. Just another little something to keep them awake at night, wondering what it means, wondering if it's leading them towards something or away from something, when, really, it's not doing either. It's only doing what they want it to. If they want to run, it's giving them something to run from. If they're searching for something, it's giving them a direction to look in. Nothing more."

Hyde smiled. "The audience is enjoying it, I hear. Analyzing it to death, I might add. Some of them say the tributes who hear the music are more likely to win. Some say they're simply the first to go insane. Some think it's a giant dragon mutt snoring. Some think it's the spirits of the dead tributes singing." He chuckled. "I particularly like that last one. Very spooky."

"Very spooky, indeed," Helius agreed. "Not at all true, I'm afraid, but very interesting, nonetheless. No, the music's nothing special. But how the tributes _react _to it – well, that might tell you a thing or two."

"And the water – you shut it off intentionally, I presume? Everywhere on the station?"

"Quite right," Helius nodded. "What they have now is what they'll have to make do with for the rest of the Games – barring the kind whims of sponsors."

"Speaking of kind whims, Mercury's sponsors sure came through." Mercury and Alasdair were on their way to find Barclay again, with the medicine from the parachute.

Helius smiled. "Mercury's, yes, but also Barclay's and Alasdair's. There was some collective pitching in, I assume. The mentors make quite a convincing team."

The tone in his voice was unmistakable. "But…" Hyde added for him.

Helius shrugged. "But they can't be a team forever. The mentors know that. The sponsors know that. Even the tributes know that. Sooner or later, they'll have to choose."

Hyde nodded. From the tone of Helius' voice, he would bet good money that it would be 'sooner.'

* * *

"_You seek meaning."_

"_Yes."_

"_Then listen to the music, not the song."_


	39. Always a Choice

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the last poll are up on the blog. New poll up on my profile, this time asking you you _think _will be the victor. Please note that this is not (necessarily) the same as who you _want_ to see as the victor. (That'll be up next.) Also, please note that this does _not_ in any way determine who the victor is; that's one thing that's been set in my head for quite a while now – since before the Games themselves started, if I'm being honest. That having been said, please do vote, mostly because I'm curious. As usual, **read the chapter first_, _**because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

Also, a shout-out to JabberJayHeart, who has an open SYOT wish an X-Men-ish twist, and to SkyeBird128, who recently finished a colossal 96-tribute SYOT and somehow still has the motivation to do another (regular-sized this time). Let's send some tributes their way.

* * *

**Day Five  
****Always a Choice**

* * *

**Ivy Asters  
****District Eleven Mentor**

"Do you ever get used to it?"

Ivy slipped an arm around Elijah's shoulders. It was easy to forget it was his first year as a mentor. She'd wanted to take some of the burden off him by mentoring two of the tributes herself, but, to her surprise, Lynher had outlasted both Jazz and Bakaari. And now there were only eight of them left.

And Lynher had begun to hunt.

_About time, too_. She had to fight to keep from saying it out loud. She'd been a killer from day one, picking up two kills during the bloodbath and seven during the rest of her Games, which had been one of the shortest ever. Nine kills – a record that had stood for nineteen years before Mortimer finally broke it.

Nine tributes, dead at her hands. But those weren't the faces that haunted her. The ones that woke her in the middle of the nights were the ones that came later – the faces of the tributes she had been unable to save. Twenty-one years. Forty-two tributes.

And then Elijah.

"No, you don't get used to it," Ivy answered quietly, squeezing his shoulder tightly. "Not really. You tell yourself you will – that it won't bother you this time, that you won't get anxious every time they're in danger, that you won't spend every second wondering if this will be the year that one of them gets lucky. But you never get used to it. You've done well, though."

Elijah shook his head. "Lynher's done well. I haven't really done anything."

"You haven't been able to send him anything, no, but never underestimate the importance of what you've done already – what you did _before _the Games. What he did during training, the allies he chose – you had a say in that."

"His allies are dead," Elijah pointed out.

Ivy nodded. "True. But he learned a bit from them first. Daedem taught him a thing or two about taking the initiative, being willing to make a move. Do you really think the Lynher who entered that arena would be chasing Ryzer right now?"

Elijah shook his head. "He's not chasing her."

Ivy cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"He's just trying to look like he's chasing her. Watch him – closely. Every time he gains a bit of ground – every time she starts to slow a little – he's slowing to match. He should have caught her by now. He's letting her run. If she'd bothered to branch off and run another way, zig-zagged a little, they would have lost each other by now."

Ivy turned her attention back to the screen. Elijah was right. "Damn," she muttered. "Why's he doing that?"

Elijah shrugged. "Because he doesn't want to kill her – not really. And he's not desperate. He has no reason to go after her. She doesn't have anything he needs."

"The sponsors—"

"Will give him credit for trying. Or, at least, that's what he's hoping, or he'd have no reason to chase her at all."

"How did you...?"

"Figure that out?" Elijah shrugged. "Because I'd be doing the same thing. Think about it, Ivy. Last year – my first two kills. The boy from Seven, the girl from Nine. They had food – food I needed. I didn't_ want_ to kill them, but it was the only way to get the supplies. Lynher's like me. He doesn't want to kill unless he has to."

Ivy nodded. He had a point. Elijah's only other kill – his last kill – had been the boy from Three. The only other tribute left. It wasn't the strategy she would have used, but the fact that Elijah was sitting here with her was proof that it worked.

She only hoped it worked as well for Lynher.

* * *

**Ryzer Hijore, 16  
****District Six**

Part of her wanted him to catch her.

Ryzer silently willed her legs to keep moving as she forced more air into her tired lungs. Maybe she should turn and fight. It would be over quicker – whichever way this went. Maybe that would be better. Maybe…

One more step. Then another. Down the same hallway. She'd thought about turning – one way or another – but so many of the hallways appeared to be dead ends. She didn't want to end up cornered. She'd cornered enough animals to know it was a bad position to be in. It never ended well for either hunter or prey. A cornered animal was desperate, but, in trying to escape, she could hurt herself as much as her hunter.

Her hunter. It was a new feeling – being hunted. Being the prey. Until now, she and Cassandra had been the hunters. They'd hunted Luke. The girl from Nine. The boy from One at the cornucopia. It had almost been fun.

This wasn't fun. Not even a little bit. It was terrible. It was like … it was like being nibbled to death by cats. Ryzer almost giggled at the image – and might have, if she'd had the breath to spare – but that was what it was like, really. She could almost feel the little bites. Every time she took a step away, the boy took a step closer. Nibbling away at the distance. Nibbling away at her chances of escape.

It was only a matter of time before he took a bigger bite.

What was he waiting for? Surely he could have caught her by now. Or maybe he was just as tired as she was. Maybe he didn't want this chase to continue any more than she did.

But, if that was the case, then why didn't he stop?

And if he was tired, maybe she _should _turn around and fight him. Maybe she would have the advantage – at least for a moment. After running for so long, he wouldn't be expecting her to turn and fight.

But, after that moment was gone, then what? What advantage did she really have? She had a knife and her hand scythe, but, if he was chasing her, then he was probably armed, too. She hadn't had the chance to turn and look. Hadn't wanted to slow down enough to turn around and see how well-equipped her opponent was.

She'd turned briefly – long enough to tell that it was a boy. One of the boys from Eleven, she was pretty sure. In fact, now that she thought about it, she was pretty certain it was one of the boy's who been allied with the boy from One. The boy she and Cassandra had killed.

Was _that _why he was chasing her?

That would make sense. If someone had killed her ally, then—

Then what?

Someone _had _killed her ally. The girl from Five had killed Cassandra – just like that. And she hadn't done _anything_. She had run. Just run. Hadn't started planning her revenge. Hadn't even thought about it, really. She'd been too scared.

She was still too scared.

Maybe it didn't matter. If she survived this, then she could worry about the girl from Five. Then she could worry about revenge. For now, surviving would be revenge enough. If she survived – if she went back to District Six – then that would be enough. Cassandra had wanted to win, but, if she couldn't, Ryzer was pretty sure she would have wanted it to be her.

Ryzer smiled a little as the hallway changed from blue to purple. She'd never actually thought about winning – not really. She hadn't really been sure _what _she wanted. She'd just been enjoying the Games. But now that Cassandra was gone – now that she could think about winning without having to think about killing her only friend to get there – maybe she _did _want it.

It was certainly better than dying.

* * *

**Dewan Rutledge, 15  
****District Two**

Someone was nearby.

Dewan slowly got up and, against his better judgment, opened the door a crack. He could hear footsteps coming down the hall. After a few seconds, a girl ran past. Then, a moment later, a boy. Neither of them turned. Neither of them saw him.

Without thinking, Dewan grabbed his weapons and followed.

Maybe this was it. The finale. Were these the only two left? The girl he recognized – Ryzer, one of the girls from Six. One of the ones who had warned him about Luke. The one who had thrown him the knife during the bloodbath. Part of him was almost glad she was still alive.

The other part was almost sorry he would have to kill her.

But he did have to. If he was right – if they were the last two – then she was one of only two tributes standing between him and home. He didn't want to do this.

But he had to.

It didn't take him long to catch the boy. Before the boy could turn, Dewan flung a knife, striking the boy between the shoulder blades. The boy cried out in pain and sank to the ground, startled and confused by the sudden attack. There was no cannon – not yet – but Dewan kept running, chasing the girl. Once he caught her, then he could come back and finish the boy.

Then it would be over.

Hearing the boy's scream, Ryzer turned, surprised, in time to block Dewan's first blow with her own weapon – some sort of small scythe. Dewan ducked, dodging the blow that followed. There wasn't much force behind it. She was obviously winded. How long had she been running?

Long enough.

Suddenly, there was a grunt from behind him. Dewan instinctively dodged, before he even saw the boy – back on his feet – lunging towards him with a dagger. Dewan cursed under his breath as the boy's swing narrowly missed his head. Maybe his shot hadn't been as good as he'd thought.

Maybe he was even more tired than he'd thought.

All the more reason to get this over with.

As quickly as he could, Dewan dove for the boy's legs, tackling him. The boy lashed out as they fell, but Dewan was ready, rolling out of the way as the two of them tumbled to the floor. The girl saw her chance, bringing her scythe down, but, as she did, Dewan reached out a leg, swiping her feet out from under her. Her swing went wild, and both he and the other boy dodged. Dewan made a grab for the girl's hand, hoping to wrench the scythe from her grasp.

But, in that moment, a sharp pain shot through his back. Dewan's arm swung backwards, striking the other boy's head. The boy gave a cry and yanked his knife out of Dewan's back as the girl swung again. This time, the other boy didn't have time to dodge, and the blade sliced into his shoulder. Dewan gasped for breath, blood pouring from the wound in his back. He didn't have much time. Not much time.

He would have to kill them quickly.

Desperately, Dewan flung his knife. Ryzer, in the middle of a swing that might have finished the other boy, didn't have time to dodge, and the knife lodged itself in her throat, muffling her scream as she sank to the ground beside them. Dewan scrambled to her side.

But the other boy reached the scythe first.

It was a clumsy swing, the weapon clearly unfamiliar, but it was enough. The blade sliced into Dewan's chest, coating it with blood. The other boy staggered backwards, trying to stop the blood gushing from his own arm. Dewan coughed a little, tasting blood in his mouth as Ryzer's cannon fired. His eyes found the other boy's.

"I guess you win."

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

"Win what?"

Lynher reached for the knife as the boy's cannon sounded. As quickly as he could, he cut off a few strips of cloth from the boy's shirt and wrapped one around his shoulder. He tied it as well as he could with his other hand and his teeth, but the blood didn't stop. Lynher pulled the knot tighter. Tighter. Finally, the bleeding slowed. Then stopped. The wound in his back didn't seem to be bleeding as much. He could only hope it wasn't as bad as it felt.

_I guess you win_.

Win what? The Games? No. No, if they had been the last three – if this had, in fact, been the finale – then there would have been an announcement. A fanfare. Something. They would have come to get him.

But were they close? The boy had seemed pretty certain. Maybe they _were _down to the last few. He didn't think he'd heard that many cannons, but he had been asleep for a while. Maybe he'd missed a few. Maybe he'd lost count.

Part of him hoped so.

Lynher collapsed on the floor beside the two bodies. Was it better to rest a while? Recover his strength? Or should he try to find the others now? If there were only a few of them, he might be able to take care of the others before…

Before he bled to death. But he was in no condition to fight. Not now. He needed to rest. If only for a little while. Maybe they would let him do that. Maybe…

He closed his eyes.

_I guess you win_. For a moment, the words had actually felt _good_. For a moment, he had thought that it might be over. But he was still here. Still in the arena.

He still had to kill.

He wasn't sure how long he'd had his eyes closed – maybe he'd dozed off – but, suddenly, he heard a soft pinging. Lynher forced his eyes open as a parachute landed beside him.

Inside was a small bottle. Medicine? Lynher opened the bottle and smelled it – a sickly sweet smell. Sleep syrup. A message: It would be safe to rest for a while. Which meant there must be more of them left than the other boy had thought. But how many…?

Then he saw the tiny slip of paper attached to the bottle. On the slip of paper was a small but unmistakable number "7".

"Seven of us left?" Lynher asked. He received no answer, of course, but he couldn't think of anything else that a seven might mean. He nodded weakly. "All right. Seven, then."

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet. Seven of them left. Better not to try to find the others now, then. Better to find somewhere safe. Somewhere to rest. He needed to rest.

He just wanted to rest.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

She wanted to lie.

Mercury glanced away from Alasdair as he repeated the question. "What happened at the cornucopia?"

"I…" Mercury watched the boy as she followed him down the hallway. She could lie. Say that nothing had happened. But he wasn't stupid. Sponsors didn't reward tributes for doing nothing. The medicine Barclay needed wouldn't have just appeared for no reason. He knew something had happened, and he was giving her the chance to be honest.

"The girls from Six were there," Mercury said at last. "Not at first. I was looking through the supplies when they came in. I screamed. It was stupid, but I was just … I was so scared. Once they saw me, I knew I … I had to do something. I couldn't escape without them catching me, and I couldn't fight both of them at once."

"So what did you do?"

"I let them catch me. Let them think I was hurt, tried to crawl away. Then, when one of them came after me, I…" She swallowed hard. "I killed her. The other one ran away. Then you came, and the parachute—" She shook her head. "I just want to find Barclay. Once we find him, everything will be fine."

"Will it? Then what do we do?"

The question caught her off-guard. That was why she had gone to the cornucopia, after all. To get medicine for Barclay, so that he would be all right. She hadn't really given any thought to what might happen afterwards.

"There are only seven of us left," Alasdair said softly. "I just meant … What are we planning to do next?"

Mercury shook her head. She hadn't really been _planning _anything. She'd been assuming Barclay and Alasdair would stay in the garden and wait for her. But now that it had been gassed…

"Maybe we should all head back to the cornucopia," she suggested. "There's no one there now; I don't think the other girl's coming back. And if she does … Well, there will be three of us. I don't think she'd want to take on all of us."

"Most of the others probably wouldn't," Alasdair pointed out. And he was probably right. Seven tributes left. Assuming Barclay was still alive somewhere up ahead, that made three of them. Four others. The girl from Six was one – unless one of the two cannons since then had been hers. Who else was left?

"Mercury!" Barclay's voice shook her from her thoughts. Mercury turned to see him lying in one of the hallways off to the side. His expression was tinged with pain, but he managed a smile as she rushed to his side. "You came back."

Mercury nodded. "And I brought something for you." She removed the small bottle from her pocket and opened it. Carefully, she and Alasdair helped Barclay sit up, and she poured the contents into his mouth.

Barclay swallowed gratefully. "Thank you. I would never have asked you to … to do that for me."

Mercury looked away. Of course he wouldn't have. He would have done the same thing for her, of course, but he would never have asked it of her.

But he would have done it for the right reasons.

Because the truth was that she hadn't gone back to the cornucopia for him. She'd gone back for herself, hoping the sponsors would notice her, hoping the audience would realize that she had a chance. And the parachute was proof that they had. Someone out there – probably more than one someone – thought she had a chance.

She had killed for that chance.

Mercury shook the thought from her head. She hadn't had a choice. Not really. The other girl would have killed her if Mercury hadn't struck first. There was no doubt about that. One of them had to die. One of them could live. Kill or be killed.

Maybe it really was that simple.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

He could barely taste the blood anymore.

Brennan sank his teeth into his fourth rat. It hadn't taken him long to find a section of paneling in the wall that was loose, leading to some sort of tunnels that seemed to run throughout the station. Air ducts? Some sort of ventilation system? Maybe it didn't matter. Their true purpose was clear: They were meant for tributes to hide in.

Tributes like him.

Brennan picked some of the fur from his teeth, then went back to digging through the tiny bones to find any meat that might remain. Finally convinced that he had picked them clean, he leaned back against the wall of the tunnel and closed his eyes. What would his parents think if they could see him now? What would Olivia think?

Except they _could _see him. And it didn't matter. He had hoped that the memory of them might be enough to keep him grounded, to keep him from becoming an animal. But, now that it came down to it, the thought of their disapproval or even disgust was so distant that it almost didn't matter at all. It certainly wasn't enough to keep him from doing what he needed to do in order to survive.

And right now, what he needed was food. And water. The rats were enough to keep him fed, and, so far, their blood had been enough to keep him hydrated. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't decent. It wasn't proper.

But he was alive.

Francis had been right from the start, ever since the train ride. While Brennan and Blythe had gone along with Silas' games, Francis had refused to play. _Alive_, he had answered when Silas asked who he was. _And I'd like to stay that way_. Maybe that was all that mattered. He was still alive.

Everything else was negotiable.

Suddenly, there was another noise off to his left. Brennan's eyes snapped open. More scuffling. Another rat, maybe, but it sounded larger. Another tribute? Brennan's body tensed. Should he run? The tunnels were narrow, but he might be able to get away.

Then he heard singing.

For a moment, he thought it was simply the stations humming again. But this time he heard it – really, truly heard it. Some sort of chanting, low and deep and … and almost beautiful. Slowly, Brennan crept forward in the tunnel as if drawn towards the sound. Up ahead, the tunnel curved. Brennan cautiously turned the corner.

Immediately, he stopped short. In front of him was a mutt – at least, he could only assume it was a mutt. The tunnel had widened, its ceiling higher, allowing the creature to stand at its full height – at least a foot taller than Brennan and easily four or five times as wide. Most of the mutt was shrouded in what appeared to be a long, dark purple and brown cape. A strange greenish-brown covering hid where its head should have been, with only a single green circle in the center that might have been an eye. A crest of the same color rose from what should have been its shoulders, surrounding the head on either side.

Brennan almost turned and ran. But the mutt was looking at him. It could almost certainly outrun him, even in the tunnels. The Gamemakers wouldn't have led him here if they were simply going to let him run away.

And it was singing.

Brennan stared at the creature. Maybe he was going crazy, but it was definitely singing – a low, soft chanting, the words impossible to make out.

_Crazy people don't know they're going crazy. They think they're getting sane._ Well, maybe he was going crazy, then. Because, for a moment, everything seemed so clear. So certain. So beautiful. For one moment, he was absolutely sure of what he had to do.

But only for a moment.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

Why would there be rats on a space station?

Blythe had to look twice as the little creature scurried past her. It was definitely a rat. There didn't seem to be anything particularly unusual or dangerous about it, but that wasn't always a guarantee. A few years before, a carnival-themed arena had been populated by pigeons that had seemed perfectly harmless – cute, even – until a tribute finally managed to catch one. As it turned out, their beaks were razor-sharp, and several tributes lost fingers or even eyes to the birds.

Blythe shuddered, but she followed the rat, anyway. Not because she was hoping to catch it – one rat wouldn't make much of a meal, after all – but because, if there were rats on the station, and if those rats were alive, they must be eating _something_. And it was heading away from the cornucopia. So maybe there was food somewhere else.

Maybe.

But this was also the direction Brennan had gone. She was pretty sure of that, at least. Blythe shook the thought from her head. If she didn't find food and water soon, it wouldn't matter which direction Brennan had gone. And, right now, the rat was her best chance of finding _something_.

She could worry about Brennan later.

Besides, even if he had gone this way, he was probably far ahead of her by now. Or maybe he had turned off in one direction or the other. Or even found the train car again and doubled back. He could be on the other side of the station by now. She couldn't spend the rest of the Games worrying about what would happen if she ran into him.

And there had been two cannons since they'd parted ways. For all she knew, one of them had been his. For all she knew, he was already gone. Already…

Dead. Brennan might be dead, along with Elaine and Grace. The last of her allies might be gone.

But even if he wasn't … was he really an ally anymore? If they found each other again, did she owe him anything? Or would he be just another tribute? Would he try to kill her?

Would she try to kill him?

Maybe. Maybe, if he made the first move. If she had to defend herself, then, yes, she could almost picture herself killing him. Almost. But would he move first? Would he be able to attack her?

A day or two ago – when Elaine and Grace were still alive – she would have said no. She would never have been able to picture any of them turning on each other. But losing them … It had changed Brennan. And it had changed her. She wasn't sure of Brennan anymore. She wasn't even sure of herself.

She _was_ sure that rats could run a lot faster than that.

Which meant it wasn't trying to get away – not really. The Gamemakers were trying to lead her somewhere. Blythe silently cursed herself for being so stupid. She was doing exactly what Brennan had wanted to do: following where the Gamemakers wanted them to go.

No. No, this was different. Brennan had wanted to follow some imaginary singing – something she couldn't even hear. At least what _she _was following was real, and held the promise of food at the end of the journey, wherever that was. At least she wasn't blindly following her imagination. The rat in front of her was real.

Wasn't it?

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She hadn't expected a little girl.

Asteria watched from her hiding place behind a few shelves in the corner. The girl entered the room hesitantly, following a rat or a mouse of some sort. Asteria smiled a little. The girl had probably figured the animal would lead her to food. Clever.

Too clever.

That was probably the only reason she had made it this far. The girl was one of the younger ones. District Twelve, Asteria was pretty sure. Not very large or strong. And she didn't appear to be armed.

But she also didn't appear to be injured. And Asteria's leg was still throbbing, her body still weak from blood loss. Any tribute – even a small, unarmed one – was a threat until she was healed.

But she would heal quicker if she had a little help. And help could only come from sponsors. If she could prove that she was a contender, even in this condition – if she could take on another tribute despite her injuries – then they might send her something.

Or it might be too much. The other girl might be able to kill her. Maybe it was better to wait. To rest. To see what the other girl would do.

The girl was taking it slowly. Carefully. She had spotted the bodies – the girl from Two and the boy from Ten. But she was staring at them, confused, as if something didn't quite add up.

And it didn't. There were no weapons – at least, not with the bodies. Asteria had them with her. Silently, she cursed her stupidity. Obviously, they hadn't killed each other with their bare hands – not unless one of them was deranged enough to gnaw the other's hand off. Maybe she should have left one – either the knife or the dagger – for someone to find. But that would have meant giving them a weapon. The thought of that hadn't even crossed her mind.

In any case, it was too late now. Too late to do anything but hope. Hope the girl wouldn't realize she was here. Hope that maybe she would think another tribute had killed them and left – or that they had killed each other, and someone else had stolen the weapons and gone. Anything, as long as she didn't figure out the truth.

Because the element of surprise was the one thing that could work in Asteria's favor. If she waited until the girl fell asleep, she would have her advantage back. Or if the lights went out. She only needed one more cannon for that. Just one more.

Or maybe the girl would leave before then. That might be better. Asteria wasn't in any condition for a real fight. _Just go_, she silently pleaded with the girl._ Just take what you need and go_. There was more than enough food, more than enough water. She could spare what little the girl would be able to carry and still be left with plenty.

_Just go._

But the girl didn't go. Instead, her caution finally overcome by the sight of food, she sat down with a large box of supplies and began wolfing down everything she could. Asteria clenched her dagger tightly. She couldn't exactly blame the girl for being hungry. She would probably have done the same, even if she suspected that there might be someone nearby. The temptation of food was just too much.

And there wasn't anything she could do about it. Not yet. She didn't dare reveal herself. Not while the girl would be able to see her well before she could strike. No, she would have to wait. For the girl to sleep. For a cannon. Or for something else. Anything else.

Just a little longer.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He'd never imagined he'd be resting at the cornucopia.

Alasdair leaned back against the bar counter alongside Barclay, exhausted from helping Mercury half-carry him back, but oddly content. They were safe – at least for the moment. And Mercury was right; the cornucopia was probably the safest place for them to be. They had food, water, supplies, weapons. Everything they needed.

But it still felt strange.

There was usually an unspoken agreement in the Games that the cornucopia was – at first, at least – claimed by the Careers. But if the girls from Six had been watching it when Mercury had arrived, did that mean there were no Careers left? Not that there had been many actual Careers in the first place, but there had been several larger alliances. Were they all gone?

Were they all dead?

Alasdair shook his head, smiling a little at the irony. The Careers were gone, and he was still here. A twelve-year-old boy from District Three.

Mercury was having a look at the bodies strewn about the room, hoping for clues about who was still alive. A bit morbid, perhaps, but probably a good use of their time. She had quickly found her own district partners, as well as Calissa, the other girl from Four.

Which made each of them the last tribute from their district.

"Thirteen bodies," Mercury concluded after sweeping the room one more time. "Not much to go on."

Alasdair nodded. Not much to go on at all – even once they added in the other tributes they could say for certain were dead. Natasha and Eigen. Enzo and Dennar. Kinley. That brought the total to eighteen. They could account for half the tributes. Which meant that, aside from the three of them, there were fifteen possible tributes left – and four of them were still alive.

But which four?

Alasdair rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he'd slept? The gas in the garden, finding Mercury at the cornucopia, finding Barclay again, coming _back _to the cornucopia. No wonder he was exhausted. "Do you think it would be safe to rest for a while?" he asked Mercury hopefully.

Mercury turned, surprised – maybe not so much by the question as by the fact that he was asking _her_. But who was he supposed to ask? Barclay was already dozing off, which was probably the best thing for him. Maybe he should let Mercury sleep first. She must be tired, too.

He was just about to offer when Mercury answered first. "Go ahead. They'll probably leave us alone for a while, after everything that just happened."

Everything that just happened. A mild way of putting it. He and Barclay had been gassed out of the garden. Mercury had been attacked. And then she'd killed a girl.

Alasdair's gaze strayed to the body on the floor in the center of the room – the one Mercury had been avoiding. Was that her – the girl she had killed?

Alasdair closed his eyes. It didn't matter. What she'd done, she'd done to save Barclay – and to save her own life. He would have done the same thing.

Probably.

No, not probably, he decided as sleep began to cloud his mind. The Alasdair who had entered the arena – the Alasdair who had watched as Dennar had killed Eigen – he wouldn't have killed. Maybe not even to save his own life. But now … Maybe he would. Maybe he could. And he would have to, if he wanted to go home.

But he didn't have to worry about that now. Not yet. The Gamemakers would leave them alone for a while. That was what Mercury had said, at least. They could probably rest for a while.

Only a few hours later, he woke to the smell of gas.

* * *

**Barclay Mattison, 18  
****District Four**

He wished they would stop shaking him.

Barclay slowly opened his eyes. His head seemed a bit clearer, but the pain in his chest was as deep and sharp as it had been. Sleeping had been so much better. Alasdair and Mercury knelt beside him, their faces frantic, panicked. "What is it this time?" Barclay asked sleepily.

"Gas!" Alasdair pointed to the ceiling, where a sickly green gas was starting to seep through. "We have to get out of here!"

Barclay glanced at the doors, but some sort of metal barrier had slid down in front of both of them, barring the way. "We have to find another way out!" Mercury insisted. "Before the gas—"

Barclay shook his head. "There isn't a way out."

Alasdair's head turned so fast, Barclay thought for a moment it might snap off. "What do you mean?"

"They don't want us to find a way out," Barclay said matter-of-factly. "That's not the point."

"Then what do they want?" Mercury asked.

Barclay shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? "They want us to die."

Both Alasdair and Mercury looked shocked. But that was what it came down to in the end, wasn't it? They could dress it up all they wanted, make a show out of it, but the entire point of the Games was that all but one of them ended up dead. That was what they wanted – one way or another.

And that was what they would get. None of them had any say in it. Not really. If the Gamemakers wanted them dead, there was really nothing they could do about it.

"The gas masks—" Alasdair started, but then stopped short, realizing. Doing the math. Two gas masks. Three of them.

That was the point. That was what the Gamemakers wanted.

They wanted them to choose.

Alasdair put it together first. Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed one of the gas masks – and a knife – and darted to the far corner of the room. Mercury didn't make a move to stop the younger boy as he put the gas mask on, silently claiming his right to survive. Mercury simply turned to Barclay, terror in her eyes, wondering what he would do.

Barclay silently reached for the second gas mask and fastened it around Mercury's head.

He could see the tears in her eyes even through the mask. "Barclay, I—" Her voice was muffled, thick with tears.

Barclay shook his head as the gas began to fill the room. "It's okay."

And, to his surprise, it _did _feel okay. He had always thought he would feel scared. Panicked. But, now that the moment had come, all he felt was relieved. He was going to die, and it almost didn't matter. Because Mercury would be safe.

Mercury shook her head. "It's not fair."

Of course it wasn't fair. But that didn't matter – not anymore. He coughed a little. The gas didn't even smell that bad – not really. It didn't hurt. He didn't even feel like he was dying. He just felt tired.

So tired.

Barclay leaned back against the counter. "Thank you for coming back for me."

Mercury gripped his hand tightly. "Didn't do much good, did it."

Barclay squeezed her hand back. "Of course it did. All that time … in the hallway … I was just hoping …" He coughed a little, struggling to get the words out. "Hoping that I wouldn't … wouldn't have to … die alone …" He smiled a little as he closed his eyes. "Thank you."

Then the cannon sounded.

* * *

**Naomi Darya  
****District Four Mentor**

It would've almost been better if he was screaming.

Naomi watched Misha silently as the younger mentor stared at the screen, taking it in. He didn't scream. Didn't cry. For the longest time, he didn't even blink. Finally, Mags reached over to put an arm around his shoulders.

Misha jerked away violently. "Don't! Don't touch me!"

Mags backed off, and Naomi nodded silently to her, reminding herself that Barclay had been Misha's tribute. His first. Everyone reacted differently to losing their first tribute. Some yelled. Some drank. According to Mags, she'd had spent an hour or so crying into Aron's shoulder after losing her first tribute. Everyone handled it differently.

She just wished they could help him.

But there was nothing they could do, in the end. Nothing anyone could do. Even injured, Barclay had still been bigger and stronger than both his allies. He could probably have overpowered one of them and taken one of the gas masks for himself. But he had chosen not to. He had chosen to save them, instead.

"He didn't deserve this." Misha's voice was quiet. Almost a whisper. Cold, hard, decisive. Almost deadly. There was a look in his eyes that Naomi hadn't seen there since his own Games. A sudden, fierce determination. "They'll pay."

_Damn._

She'd been hoping for a different reaction. Every so often, though, a new mentor felt that the only way to respond to a tribute's death was with a thirst for revenge. Naomi had done the same herself when her first tribute, a boy named Hudson, had died in the bloodbath; she had spent the rest of the Games hoping someone would kill the tribute responsible.

But, when they finally had, it hadn't helped. Hadn't made anything better. Hadn't brought Hudson back. Eventually, she had learned. Every mentor did. It wasn't the other tribute's fault – not really. They were simply trying to survive. She had hoped Misha would understand that.

"Misha, Alasdair and Mercury didn't—"

"Not them," Misha cut her off coldly. "They're only pawns. They're not the ones responsible. They're not the ones who have to pay."

_Even worse._

"Misha, you can't do anything about the Gamemakers. They're—"

"No, they're just doing their jobs," Misha continued. "Just doing as they're told. They're not the real problem. And they're not the solution." He squeezed his glass so hard, Naomi thought it might break. "I'll find a way. I'll find a way to make this right. I don't care how long it takes, Naomi. They'll pay. They'll all pay." He glared at the screen. _Through _the screen, as if his gaze could somehow pierce all the way through to the leaders of the Capitol, maybe to the president himself.

"I'll find a way."

* * *

"_There is always a choice. We say there is no choice only to comfort ourselves with a decision we have already made."_


	40. The More We Fight

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the poll are up on the blog. New poll up on my profile, this time asking who you _want_ to see as the victor. As usual, **read the chapter first**, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

Also, a shout out to kopycat101, who has drawn some absolutely lovely fan art for the story. There's a link on my profile, since every time I try to paste it here, the site automatically deletes the link.

* * *

**Day Six  
****The More We Fight**

* * *

**Harakuise Swallot  
****District Five Mentor**

"He doesn't know what he's saying."

Harakuise looked up as Mags slid into a seat beside him. "He's drunk," Mags offered, trying to help Misha cover his tracks. Trying to pretend he wasn't _really _vowing revenge against the Capitol. "He doesn't mean it."

Harakuise smiled a little. "Of course he does. And he's not wrong – not about most of it, at least."

Mags stared. Clearly, that wasn't the answer she'd been expecting. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he's right. Barclay didn't deserve this. Most of them don't. Sure, there are sometimes a few who do. A few who bring their fate on themselves. And a few who volunteer for it. But, for the most part, the tributes – at least at the start – are innocent. And there are a few who, despite everything, manage to stay that way. I would never have done what Barclay did. Tributes like that amaze me – always have." His own district partner, Brie, had been the same – willing to give her life for someone she cared for.

"He's also right that it's not the other tributes' fault," Harakuise continued. "Alasdair and Mercury – they just want to live. There's no shame in that. And it was Barclay's choice. He chose their lives over his. Misha's also right about the Gamemakers. They're just doing their jobs – and doing them very well, I might add." Barclay's death would probably split Alasdair and Mercury. The darkness would allow Asteria to make her move, ushering in a fight or a chase on that end of the station, where Brennan was following a mutt in the direction of his former ally. The Gamemakers were starting to draw the Games to a close, and Barclay's death was the trigger.

Mags eyed him curiously. "So you're agreeing with him? That it's the Capitol's fault?"

Harakuise shook his head. "No, that's where he's wrong – and most of the districts are wrong, too. It's our fault – the fault of the districts – for making the Games necessary. We're the reason they began, and we're the reason they continue. Twenty-three lives a year is a terrible price to pay for peace, but it's better than what would result if that peace weren't so carefully guarded."

Mags nodded along. But Harakuise could see the disagreement in her eyes. He was used to that. Even in the Career districts, very few of his fellow Victors saw things his way. But that was all right. It didn't matter what they thought – not really. It didn't even really matter that Misha was now bent on revenge. What was he planning to do? In a few days, he would be back in District Four, where the entire district knew him to be irrational and unstable. They wouldn't listen. And, if Mags and Naomi had any sense, he would never mentor again. He would probably spend the rest of his days holed up in his house in Victors' Village, plotting an elaborate scheme for revenge that would never see the light of day.

Harakuise took a sip of his drink. "I'm not going to kill him, if that's what you're worried about."

Mags was struggling not to look relieved. "How generous of you."

Harakuise chuckled. "Oh, it's not generosity, believe me. The poor fool is probably hoping someone will kill him. Hoping someone will find out what he's planning and put a stop to it. Sometimes for victors like him … It's easier to find something worth dying for than something worth living for."

"Victors like him," Mags repeated.

Harakuise nodded. "But not you. And not me. The Games changed us, but they didn't break us. We're the sort of Victors the districts need, Mags. The sort of heroes they need to see. And we're the sort of district citizens the _Capitol_ needs to see. We're the ones who show them that we're not all rebellious monsters, that tributes like Niles and Fletcher … They're the minority. Most of us wouldn't dream of breaking the peace we've had for twenty-five years. And some of us are working to protect it."

Mags looked away. She had a part in that, and she knew it. The Career system in District Four was meant to save lives – to ensure that tributes like Barclay didn't end up in the Games – but it had the effect of making the Games more accepted, if not entirely welcome. Tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four weren't rebels. They simply weren't.

And they never would be.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

She wouldn't have picked him.

Alasdair took a step back farther into the corner as the lights continued to flicker on and off. Barclay was dead. But the two of them were still here. Still trapped in a room together. And he had just let Barclay die.

No, more than that. He had made the first move. Knowing that, given the choice, Mercury would want to save Barclay instead, he had taken a gas mask first. He had forced them to choose.

He had just wanted to live. He had just wanted to go home.

More than anything, he just wanted to go home.

But the room was still filling with gas, and they were still here. So now what? The gas masks wouldn't last forever. He wasn't sure how long they _would _last, but he _was _pretty sure, after what had just happened, that the Gamemakers weren't just going to let them sit there in a room full of gas and wait.

Alasdair glanced around frantically. They had to get the doors open. Putting on the gas masks had bought them time. Time to think. But, eventually, they would have to do something.

Something.

Alasdair gripped his knife tightly. Was that what the Gamemakers wanted – for the two of them to fight? If they fought – if one of them died – would they let the other one go? Or was there another way?

He didn't want to fight Mercury. And, even if he did, it probably wasn't a fight he would win. Mercury had already killed once. What chance did he have in a fight?

There had to be another way. Something else he could do. Alasdair's mind raced, and, in the moment, remembered something. Something Miriam had said on the train. Something she had done.

Something he could use.

Alasdair's hands flew to his throat, and he began gasping loudly. Mercury turned, startled, as Alasdair sank to his knees. "My mask … can't … breathe … Gamemakers must have…"

Mercury watched in horror as Alasdair collapsed on the ground. It was just convincing enough. Just enough like something the Gamemakers would do – see to it that whoever grabbed for a mask first would get the one that would start to malfunction. Alasdair gave a little jerk and then lay as still as he could, hoping. Hoping she would buy the act. Hoping the audience would be entertained enough to _want _her to buy it. Hoping the Gamemakers would decide that was interesting enough.

The doors slid open.

Without hesitation, Mercury scooped up her knife and a backpack that Alasdair could only assume was full of food, and darted for the blue door. In an instant, she was gone. Believing only one of them could escape. Leaving him to die. Alasdair smiled a little, glad he hadn't tried to fight her. Because it was obvious now that she wouldn't have held back. She wanted to live. She wanted to go home.

Maybe as badly as he did.

The blue door slid closed behind Mercury, but the green one remained open, inviting him through. Alasdair didn't have to be told twice. As quickly as he could, he sprang to his feet, gathered his knife and a bit of food, and hurried off in the other direction. Away from Mercury. Away from Barclay's body. Away from his allies, his friends.

Mercury would assume he was dead, as soon as the next cannon sounded. With luck, she would never find out otherwise. With luck, he would never see her again. There were six of them left. With luck, one of the others would kill her before he had to.

Now that he thought about it, maybe that was a lot of luck to hope for.

But he'd been lucky so far.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

He wasn't fooling anyone.

Mercury smiled a little as she ran down the hall. It was a clever trick – clever enough for the Gamemakers to decide to let them go – but there hadn't been a cannon. Alasdair was still alive. Hopefully, he'd run the other way. Hopefully, someone else would kill him before…

No. No, she didn't want to think about that yet. Couldn't think about someone else killing him. Or about having to kill him herself. Barclay was dead. Kinley was dead. Asteria was gone – for all Mercury knew, she might be dead, too. Niles and Mirami – both dead. She couldn't bear to think about Alasdair sharing their fate.

Not yet.

Even with the flickering lights, Mercury could see the walls around her change as she ran – from blue to purple. Finally, she stopped. She could rest for a while. Maybe they would finally let her rest…

But that was what they had thought before, at the cornucopia. They had thought they could rest. And now Barclay was…

Dead. Barclay was dead. Barclay had died, and it was her fault. He had saved her. Given her the last gas mask.

But it was only the last one because Alasdair had taken one first.

So was it his fault? If he hadn't taken one, she and Barclay could both have lived. But part of her knew Barclay wouldn't have allowed that, either. Wouldn't have let Alasdair die instead of him. If Alasdair hadn't taken a gas mask, Barclay would have given him one, anyway. He would never have taken one for himself.

So it was Barclay's fault.

That was a little better – blaming him, his selflessness, his loyalty. Because he was already dead. Her blame couldn't hurt him anymore – not like it could if she blamed herself, or Alasdair. So it would be Barclay's fault – his fault that he was so selfless and so stupid.

Mercury tried to hold back her tears as she sank to the floor. She knew whose fault it really was, of course. They wouldn't have _had _to choose if the Gamemakers hadn't flooded the room with gas. It was their fault. Everything was their fault.

Maybe Niles had been right all along. About Harakuise. About the Games. About the Capitol. He'd gone about it the wrong way, of course – murdering Harakuise wouldn't have solved anything – but, in theory … Was he right? Would it be better to stand up to the Capitol, to the president, to the Games?

Or would it only make things worse?

Mercury leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Not yet. She couldn't worry about that yet. Right now, she just wanted to get out alive. Go home to District Five and her family.

More than anything, she just wanted to go home.

She could worry about them later – about Niles and Mirami, about Harakuise and the Gamemakers and the Capitol. If she got out – no, _when _she got out – then she could figure out who was right, who was wrong, and what to do.

Right now, she just had to get out.

* * *

**Asteria Cordey, 16  
****District Nine**

She'd been lucky so far.

Asteria watched silently as the younger girl gathered up as many supplies as she could carry and turned to leave. _Good. Just leave. Just go_. The flickering lights were starting to give her a headache. She just wanted to go back to sleep. She just wanted to rest.

But the Gamemakers had other plans.

As soon as the other girl set a foot outside the door, something crashed through the wall. Some sort of mutt, tall and draped in a robe, emitting a terrible humming sound. It was followed by another, and another, pouring through the walls and into the room. The younger girl turned just long enough to see what all the commotion was, then sprinted away without a second thought.

Asteria sprang up as quickly as she could, pain shooting through her leg as she grabbed her dagger. What the Gamemakers wanted was clear. She hadn't moved quickly enough. She hadn't made her move when she could have. Now she had to make her move – or they would make theirs.

But how was she supposed to catch the other girl? The younger girl had a head start, and she appeared to be uninjured. Asteria limped out the door, with the mutts close behind. She had to try.

She had to try.

"Come back and fight!" Asteria called as loudly as she could. "Turn and fight, you coward!" Probably stupid. Probably useless. But it was her only chance. If the girl didn't come back and fight her, the mutts would almost certainly finish her off. Not that she stood a chance in a fair fight, anyway, but the other girl was smaller. Probably unarmed.

And too smart. Much too smart to be goaded into turning around and running back to what might be her death. As the other girl disappeared down the hallway, Asteria felt something strike her back. Some sort of electricity, coming from one of the mutts. Asteria crumpled to the ground, helpless, as one of the mutts loomed closer and closer to her.

Asteria gripped her dagger, but it was useless. Pointless. The mutts didn't come close enough for her to use it. Another ray of energy – sharp, stinging, and a bright blue – shot out from the mutt's chest, striking her in the stomach. Asteria cried out in pain. If taunts hadn't drawn the girl back, then maybe screams would. Maybe she would return to finish her off quickly.

But no one came. The other girl had no reason to come back. No reason to risk her life to give her opponent a quicker death. Asteria cried out again, writhing on the floor in agony as bolt after bolt of energy struck her. Asteria closed her eyes, waiting – hoping – for the blow that would end it.

Then she heard footsteps. Or, at least, it sounded like footsteps. Asteria slowly opened her eyes, but her vision was blurry, and the lights were dizzying. Who was it? Barclay? Kinley? Mercury?

No. No, she had left them. They weren't here. And neither was Dennar. She had killed him. And her other district partner – Radiance? Where was she? Asteria gripped her dagger, her thoughts drifting wildly. Whoever it was, the mutts had stopped. Stopped to let another tribute make the killing blow.

The tribute knelt closer – close enough for her to see a face. A boy's face. Lean and hungry. Desperate. Frightened. If she could kill him…

Asteria gripped her knife, and her arm flew up, but the blow was weak, her energy drained by the mutts' attack. The boy caught her wrist easily, wrenching the dagger from her grasp. "Food!" Asteria shouted suddenly. "I know where there's food!"

The promise of food made him hesitate. Asteria could feel the dagger pressed against her throat. "Where?" the boy demanded, his voice thin and shaky. He didn't want to kill her. Not really. Not if she could give him a reason not to.

But where? She couldn't tell him about the room with boxes – not when the mutts were guarding the hallway in that direction. Chances are, the mutts wouldn't let anyone else inside that room now, and the boy would know it.

But the girl – the other girl – she had taken some food. That was it. "A girl," Asteria gasped. "She went that way! She had food! I was chasing her, but the mutts—" She stopped there. The boy could put the pieces together himself.

The boy ran his tongue along his lips. Lips that were red with blood. What had he been eating? He swallowed hard. "Thank you."

Then he plunged the dagger into her chest.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

The girl's eyes went wide.

Brennan gave the dagger a tug, and, immediately, blood started to flow from the open wound. The girl gasped, clutching at her chest, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood. Brennan wanted to look away. To run. But the girl grabbed his arm one last time, sending a wave of pain through his injured wrist. Then, her voice thick with pain, she hissed two words.

"You're next."

Brennan yanked his arm back, pulling away as the girl's arm went limp and her cannon sounded. No. No, he wasn't next. He wouldn't be next.

The girl with the food would be next.

He had to find her. Now that he knew there was food – real food – the Gamemakers wouldn't let him simply eat rats anymore. And he had a dagger. A dagger that was already coated in blood.

And soon it would spill more.

Slowly, Brennan forced himself to his feet. He had to stand. He had to run. He had to chase the other girl. Because that was what it would take to get food. And he needed food to survive. And he needed to survive if he wanted to go home.

And he wanted to go home.

More than anything, he just wanted to go home.

Five tributes. Just five of them left. And one of them was up ahead. With food.

He just had to find her.

Brennan glanced at the mutts. They were simply standing there once more. Waiting. Singing. But the singing was no longer beautiful. It was simply a terrible reminder. A reminder of what he had to do. He had to kill.

He didn't want to. But he had to. And he could.

And he would.

Slowly, jogging at first, Brennan turned in the other direction, following the hallway. No point in running faster – not really. The girl, whoever she was, already had a good head start. He wouldn't find her without help.

But would he get it?

Suddenly, a panel opened in the ceiling, and something floated down. A parachute! Brennan snatched it out of the air, as if someone might come running to try to steal it from him. He tore open the small package, revealing a single piece of paper, with three words scrawled in hasty handwriting:

"_Follow the music._"

Follow the music. That was it? Brennan flung the package against the wall. That was all Silas could send him? No food? No water? _Follow the music._

Brennan clutched his dagger tightly in his left hand. _Follow the music_. All right. He could do that. For a moment, he simply waited. Listened. The music _did_ seem to be growing louder up ahead. He took a few steps, then slowly began jogging again. Faster. Faster. Louder. He was almost there.

Almost there.

* * *

**Blythe Ayers, 14  
****District Twelve**

Someone was coming.

Blythe crouched lower behind the machinery as the strange humming grew louder and louder. _Follow the music_, the message had said – the message that had dropped from a parachute only a few minutes before. She had followed the music. She had found a place to hide.

For now.

But for how long? She couldn't stay here forever. The Gamemakers wouldn't let her. There were only five of them left. It wouldn't be long before they started herding them together.

But maybe it would be safe to rest for a while.

Carefully, Blythe set down the food she had been carrying. She hadn't found any packs or bags in the room, so she had simply taken what she could carry in her arms. But it would be enough. She'd eaten her fill before leaving, and now she had more than enough to last her a few days, if she was careful.

Chances were, the Games wouldn't last that long.

Blythe swallowed hard. In only a few days, it would be over – one way or the other. She would be home, or she would be dead.

And, more than anything, she just wanted to go home.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Blythe's hand flew to her mouth, covering it as quickly as she could. Trying not to scream. Trying not to breathe. Trying not to draw attention to herself.

But how long would that last? How long would the Gamemakers let her hide here? If someone was going to find her, maybe it would be better if she found them. Maybe it would be better to attack while she could. While the other person didn't know she was there.

Unless they already knew.

There was no other reason for them to come here, after all. There was nothing in this room. Nothing except her. Whoever was here, they were looking for her. And the Gamemakers would probably see to it that they found her.

Slowly, Blythe stood up and peeked out from behind the whirring machine. In the flickering lights, she couldn't see much, but she could see movement. A little. Something turned sharply. Turning towards her. Looking at her.

"Blythe?"

Brennan. The voice was Brennan's. Blythe clenched her fists tightly, wondering. Was it better to respond? Was it better to stay silent? Was he guessing, or did he really see her? If he knew it was her, what would he do?

"Did you get a message, too?" Brennan asked.

The message. _Follow the music_. Was Silas trying to bring them back together? Had it been a mistake to separate in the first place? Was there another tribute nearby – someone he didn't want either of them to face alone? Why else would he bring them to the same place?

She had to trust him.

"Yes," Blythe said quietly, stepping out from the shadows. "I got a message. _Follow the music_. He brought us together."

In the dark, Brennan's face was unreadable. "Damn him," he muttered. "Damn him for sending it. And damn me for listening. And you – damn you, too, for being so _stupid_."

Blythe stared, putting it together too late. Silas hadn't led them together so they could team up to kill another tribute. He had led them together to kill each other.

Brennan lunged. Blythe tried to dodge, but there was nowhere to go. She threw her arms up in front of her face, trying to shield herself. The dagger sliced across her arms. Once. Twice. Blythe took a step backwards, only to find herself standing against the wall.

No. No, it couldn't end like this. She couldn't die like this. As quickly as she could, Blythe ducked below the next blow, beneath Brennan's arm. Brennan dove, his arms wrapping around her legs, trapping her.

In an instant, he was on top of her, dagger in hand. Blythe reached up to try to block the dagger as it came down, grabbing his wrist with both her hands. But, as she held his left arm, his right fist swung, landing a blow to the side of her head. Her grip loosened. Just enough.

Just enough for the blade to slide down into her chest.

He drew it out again just as quickly, and blood spurted out, soaking him. Brennan staggered backwards as Blythe lay there, bleeding, screaming, crying. But not for long, she knew. Not for long. Everything was going black. It was taking more and more effort even to scream. Her voice was hoarse. She was so tired.

So tired.

Maybe it would be easier…

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

_Boom._

Lynher rolled over as the cannon sounded. Three cannons. Three cannons since he had found the medical lab and decided that would be a good place to sleep. Three cannons since his fight with the boy and the girl. Three cannons since he had killed the boy.

Lynher shook the thought from his head. If he hadn't killed, he would be dead. The boy had attacked _him_. He hadn't asked for the fight.

But he hadn't run away from it, either.

When the other boy had gone after the girl, he could have simply run the other way. Instead, he had charged into the fight. He had attacked. Risked his own life … for what?

For the audience. Chasing after the girl had been for show, but he couldn't simply run away from a fight and expect the audience to consider him a contender. Daedem had been right all along. The sponsors, the audience, the Gamemakers – all of them favored a tribute who _did_ something over one who sat around and waited for the fight to come to him.

So he needed to go _do _something.

Lynher rolled over a little, and the pain in his back reminded him _why _he hadn't gone and done anything just yet. He was still hurt. Still tired. He could wait a little longer.

But not too long.

Three cannons since Elijah had sent the message saying there were seven of them left. So now there were only four. Only four of them. Only three people who needed to die if he wanted to go home.

And, more than anything, he just wanted to go home.

One more cannon. He would wait for one more – wait for the final three. Then he would get up. Then he would do something. He couldn't stay here forever. Couldn't just wait for someone to find him. He would have to do something.

Eventually.

Not yet.

For now, he could rest. He could sleep a little more.

Just a little more.

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

"Did you send the notes?"

Silas looked up as Mortimer took a seat on the couch beside him. "I did. Is there a problem with that?"

Mortimer shook his head. "Of course not. It's just that Dewan got a message that I didn't send him – that rock that led him to the dome – so I was just wondering if it was the Gamemakers who had forced Brennan and Blythe together, or if it was you."

Silas nodded. "It was me. The Gamemakers would have done the same eventually, of course; I just beat them to it. Figured it would be better if they met on my terms, alone, rather than with an entourage of mutts."

"Fair enough," Mortimer agreed. "Did you know what Brennan would do?"

Silas shook his head. "I expected it would come to a fight. They'd already parted ways once. They knew better than to think they could trust each other. Blythe had food; Brennan's been eating rats. He's older. He was armed; she wasn't. He already had two kills; she had none. So I suspected how it might go. But did I _know_? No. No one ever knows for sure how anything will go in the Games. Blythe could have surprised me – and, if she had, she would be alive, and Brennan would be dead." He sighed. "Both was never an option. Not really. Only one of them could win. And now only one of them is left."

Mortimer studied Silas for a moment. "He'll never forgive you, you know."

Silas nodded. "That's all right. Because if, a few days from now, he's still here to hate me … then I've done my job. I'm not here to be liked. I'm not here to be forgiven. I'm here to do a job – period. I'm here to save one life – just one. And if it can be him, if I can bring him home … that's all the forgiveness I need."

Mortimer nodded and returned to the bar counter. Silas leaned back against the couch, legs crossed, arms tucked behind his head. He hadn't expected this, when he'd agreed to mentor District Twelve. Four tributes left, and one of them was his.

Maybe Brennan had a chance, after all.

* * *

"_The more we fight for ourselves, the more we will lose ourselves."_


	41. Almost Nothing

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the poll are up on the blog. New poll on my profile. This one's just for fun; I'm curious about how long you think _you _would survive in the Hunger Games. (And if you happen to be above reaping age, imagine it's a Quell for people in your general age group.)

Happy Pi Day to my fellow math nerds.

* * *

**Day Six  
****Almost Nothing**

* * *

**Helius Florum  
****Head Gamemaker**

"Not exactly who I expected."

Helius glanced up from his map of the arena. There was surprise in President Hyde's voice, but not disapproval. The three tributes on his list were already gone; beyond that, Hyde didn't particularly care who came out of the arena. Helius giggled a little. "And who were you expecting?"

Hyde gave that some thought. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I certainly didn't expect a twelve-year-old, a tribute who allied with three little girls, the weak link in an alliance of older tributes, and the second District Eleven boy in two years to make it this far." He shook his head. "Are you sure you'll get a good finale out of them?"

Helius smiled. "Oh, so _that's _what you're worried about. I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. President. They'll give a good show."

"How can you tell?"

Helius shrugged. "Something I learned early on as a Gamemaker is that it's easy to fight when you've got a lot to work with. The real crunch comes when you're down to almost nothing. Then you either play it safe and you probably lose it all, or you take a chance. These four are ready to take chances. They've lost everything – almost. These next few hours will tell us which ones _haven't_ lost the will to fight … and they're the ones who will give you a good finale, regardless of their age, their allies, or their district."

Hyde nodded. "As long as you're sure."

"Well, it'd be a little late to do anything about it now if I wasn't," Helius pointed out. "These are the four we've got. But, yes, I'm sure." He smiled. "Relax, Mr. President. Just sit back and enjoy the show. Unless you have a preference?"

Hyde shook his head. "Why do you keep asking me, after all these years?"

Helius shrugged. "Tradition. And if one of these years you _do _have a request, I don't want to miss it because I forgot to ask a question."

Hyde smiled fondly. "If I had a request, I would have made it by now. The three who would have been dangerous as a victor are already dead. I have no doubt that any of the four who are left can be controlled. Just give us a good show, Helius."

Helius nodded. "Always."

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

Everything tasted like blood.

Brennan's body shuddered as he leaned back against the whirring machinery. Slowly, he forced himself to eat another mouthful, and then another. He washed down bite after bite with as much water as his stomach could handle. The food was certainly better than rats. But what he'd done to get it…

Brennan clenched his fists, looking away from the body. Blythe's body. His ally. Maybe his friend. Once. Not any more. She was gone. She was dead.

He had killed her.

Brennan closed his eyes. His whole body was shaking. Was it getting colder? But he was still warm. The blood that coated his shirt, his hands – it was warm and wet and sticky.

For a moment, he considered removing the shirt, but he thought better of it. The sight of him covered in blood might be enough to tip the balance in a fight – throw the other tribute off, intimidate them, or even make them think he was injured himself. It was a little thing, but little things were all he had left. He could use even Blythe's blood as a shield.

Brennan pulled his knees to his chest. He didn't want to think about the next fight. About who he might have to face. There were four of them left – he was pretty sure of that, at least – but he no longer had the slightest idea who the other three might be. Besides Blythe and the girl from Nine, the last tribute he had seen was the boy from Two – the one who had chased them from the dome.

But how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks? How many cannons had there been since then? It was all starting to blur together.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't make any difference who was left. Blythe was dead. Grace and Elaine were dead. Who else did he really know?

Francis. Maybe Francis was still alive. But he and Francis had never really been close – not since Brennan had turned down Francis' alliance to join Blythe's, instead. He'd chosen allies he could protect, rather than allies who might see him as a burden.

Fine job he'd done of protecting them.

But had that ever really been a possibility? Had he really been foolish enough to think that, given the choice between their life and his, he wouldn't choose his own? Had he really thought he could be that selfless, that noble? Brennan felt tears coming to his eyes. He'd wanted to be. But now…

Now he just wanted to live.

Slowly, Brennan opened his eyes. He was alive. Four tributes left, and he was one of them. And Blythe wasn't. It was as simple as that. She was gone. He was still here.

But he couldn't stay here – not in this room, not for long. The Gamemakers wouldn't just let him sit here. Even after what he'd done. There were only four of them left. They wouldn't want to wait.

So he couldn't wait, either.

Inch by inch, dagger gripped in his left hand, trying to avoid putting weight on his right, Brennan forced himself to his feet. He had to keep going. Had to keep moving. Had to get out of here. Had to go home.

Then he could rest.

* * *

**Lynher Palmieri, 16  
****District Eleven**

He just wanted to rest.

Lynher wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep. But, however long it had been, it still didn't feel like long enough. He'd never felt so exhausted – even after his longest days in the fields.

Killing was harder work than tending crops.

Lynher closed his eyes again. He didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think about the hand scythe that was lying on the floor nearby, still coated in blood. Didn't want to think about the boy's face as the blade had sliced into his chest as easily as it might have cut through a blade of wheat.

_Stop it_.

_Just go back to sleep._

There hadn't been any more cannons. He could sleep a little longer. Better to get all the rest he could, before…

Before the end. The finale. It wouldn't be long. There were only four of them left. But who were the other three? Besides the two tributes he'd just fought, the last person he'd seen alive was Daedem.

But how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks? It seemed like ages since he'd left the cornucopia and struck out on his own. And Daedem had been injured. Was it even possible that he was still alive?

A part of him hoped not. Hoped that he wouldn't have to face his former ally. That he wouldn't have to kill him. He wasn't sure that was a fight he could win.

Then again, he probably wouldn't have guessed, at the beginning of the Games, that he would end up facing two tributes at once and would come out on top. The boy from Two and the girl from Six hadn't been working together, of course, but they'd both been trying to kill him. But he was still here. And they were dead.

Maybe it was really that simple.

Lynher rolled over a little, his injured arm protesting as he tried to sit up. _Okay. Not yet. Rest a little longer_.

Just a little longer.

It would probably still be safe for a while. One more cannon, he had told himself. But how long ago had that been? How long would it be until the next one?

Lynher could feel drowsiness creeping over him once more. Better to rest now. Better to be ready. Better to be as strong as he could later when the fight came.

Later.

He would worry about it later.

He would fight later.

Right now, he just wanted to rest.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

She couldn't rest yet.

Mercury stood up slowly, rubbing her eyes, desperately fighting the urge to sink back to the floor and rest a little longer. A few times, she'd caught herself starting to doze off. Maybe she had. Had she fallen asleep? How long had it been since she'd left the cornucopia? Since she'd left Alasdair? There had been two cannons since then. Had one of them been his?

Part of her wasn't sure which to hope for – that he was still alive, or that he wasn't. She didn't want to think about him dying. But seeing him alive again would mean that she would have to kill him. And she didn't want to kill him. She'd never wanted to kill him.

She'd never wanted to kill anybody.

But she had. And she would have to again, if she wanted to go home.

Pacing the hallway to keep herself awake, Mercury ate a little more of the food from the cornucopia. Then a little more. Part of her wanted to ration it. Save some for later. But there were only four of them left. Soon, there wouldn't be a 'later.' She might as well keep up her strength now.

So, slowly, bite by bite, she ate as much as her stomach would allow while her mind tried to work out who might be left. The bodies at the cornucopia had ruled out some options, but not enough for her to have any real idea who she might have to face. The other girl from Six, maybe – the one who had run when Mercury had killed her ally. Was she still alive?

Had she run this way?

Now that she thought about it, Mercury was almost certain that she had. Was she lurking in a hallyway somewhere, waiting to strike? Mercury gripped her knife. Maybe she should have taken something a bit more useful from the cornucopia. A spear, a dagger, an axe, or something of that sort. But she hadn't had much time to think; the doors could have closed at any second. She'd been so focused on getting out, she hadn't grabbed anything besides a pack of food.

But it was too late to go back now. The door had closed behind her – probably for good. What she had now was what she would have to work with for the rest of the Games.

It would have to be enough.

Suddenly, a purple glow along the wall interrupted her thoughts. Mercury tensed. The Gamemakers. They were trying to lead her somewhere. Towards something. Probably towards some_one_. Mercury took a step away from the lights, her hands trembling as she gripped the knife even tighter. She wasn't ready for this.

But she had to be.

There wasn't a choice, really. Not anymore. If she didn't go of her own free will, chances were they would send a mutt to chase her in that direction, anyway. Mercury took a deep breath, then took a step forward. Then another.

The lights stopped outside a room. Mercury hesitated. Who was inside? Just one tribute? Two? Three?

At least it couldn't be more than three.

That wasn't much comfort, of course. Only the element of surprise had saved her from the girl from Six. But maybe if she was quiet enough, that could help her again. Mercury gripped the door handle and quietly turned the knob.

Then she pushed.

Slowly, quietly, bit by bit, the door slid open. Dim lights flickered in the room – enough for her to see that it was some sort of medical facility. Tables, vials, tubes, cabinets – and beds.

And one of the beds wasn't empty.

Mercury clenched her teeth. She could run. She _wanted _to run. The other tribute hadn't seen her yet. He probably wasn't even awake. She could leave, and he would never know she'd even been there.

But _she _would know.

And the audience would know.

They would know she'd passed up another chance to kill a tribute – and this time, one who wasn't her ally. Most of them would understand her reluctance to fight Alasdair, her relief that the Gamemakers had let them both walk away from the cornucopia. But this … They wouldn't simply let her walk away.

Not if she wanted to be a contender.

Mercury took a step forward. Into the room. Towards the bed. In the dim light, she could see that the other tribute was a boy. Maybe a little older than her. One of the boys from Eleven, she was pretty sure. His shirt was covered in blood, and his arm was bandaged. So he was injured. Maybe he was dying, anyway.

Maybe.

Mercury gripped her knife. Yes. Yes, if he was dying, anyway, then she wasn't really doing any harm. She might even be doing him a favor. Killing him in his sleep – that wasn't such a bad way to go. Certainly better than what had happened to Barclay. To Kinley. To Alasdair's allies. This was better.

This was kinder.

One more step, and she was standing next to him, knife in hand. He still hadn't woken. Too injured or perhaps simply too tired to be woken by a few soft footsteps. But she couldn't count on that for long. One loud noise from the Gamemakers, and the boy would wake. He would fight back. He was injured, but he might still win. Or, at the very least, injure her in the process. No, it would be better if he didn't wake.

So she would have to be quick.

Mercury braced herself. Took one more deep breath. Then she drew the knife along his throat, cutting in deep.

The boy never woke up. The cannon sounded, loud and sudden, signaling the final three. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then they went out completely, plunging the room into darkness. Seconds later, however, an odd, dim glow began to shine from the walls, the floor, the ceiling, painting the room a ghostly shade of white.

The white was broken only by the red – the red that was now dripping to the floor. Dripping from the body, from her knife, from her hands. Dripping onto a small sickle that lay discarded beside the bed, where the boy had probably left it before dozing off to a dream from which he would never awaken.

Slowly, Mercury knelt down to examine the weapon. Then she tucked her knife in a pocket and lifted the sickle. It felt comfortable in her hands. Almost as if she was meant to do this. Three tributes left. And she was meant to be one of them.

And she was ready.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He wasn't ready.

Alasdair flinched as the cannon sounded. He hadn't been ready for it – for the cannon that signaled the final three. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then they stayed off, and the odd green light that had filled the hallways was replaced with a dim white glow, faint and almost beautiful.

Almost.

Alasdair ran his hand along the wall. Three of them left. Only three. Was Mercury one of them? There had been three cannons since they'd both run from the cornucopia. Had one of them been hers?

Or was she still somewhere in the arena, wondering the same about him?

Alasdair swallowed hard. He hated thinking it, but part of him hoped that she was already dead. Because then he wouldn't have to face her. Wouldn't have to fight her.

Wouldn't have to kill her.

He didn't want to kill her. He didn't want to kill anyone. And, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure which scared him more – the thought that maybe he wouldn't be able to kill her … or the thought that maybe he would.

He'd already thought his way out of that fight once. But if he hadn't been able to – if the Gamemakers hadn't found the trick amusing enough, if they had been forced to fight – would he have been able to kill her? Would he have killed a friend, if it meant he would live?

Was that any different, in the end, from simply letting them die for him? Dennar had died saving him. Barclay had chosen to save them at the cost of his own life. Why not Mercury, too, then?

Why not one more time?

Alasdair shook the thought from his head. He wasn't even sure that Mercury was still alive. She might be dead already, in which case the whole matter was rather pointless. Everyone else he knew in the arena was already dead. Enzo and Dennar. Natasha and Eigen. Barclay. Mercury might be dead, too.

And he was still here.

But he still wasn't safe. Because there were still two tributes out there. Older. Probably stronger. Almost all of them were, after all. Any fight would be unfair. He'd been lucky so far. But that luck wouldn't last forever. Eventually, he would have to fight.

And probably very soon.

Alasdair glanced around the hallway. Which way should he go? He'd been walking away from the cornucopia. But the Gamemakers would start to lead them together soon. Would they herd them towards the cornucopia? They might have had time to clear the room of gas. Or would they simply herd them somewhere else? Either way, it would be to his advantage to get there first – maybe hide and find a way to ambush the others. Maybe he should turn around…

Just as he started to turn, however, he heard footsteps – coming from the other direction. Slow. Hesitant. Alasdair pressed his back to the wall, waiting. Should he run? But the other tribute might catch him, anyway. Try to hide? But the hallway was straight and bare. Stand and fight? But what if the other tribute was much stronger than him?

Maybe there was a better option.

Alasdair tucked his knife in his sleeve and dropped to the ground. There he lay, as still as he could, his face towards the approaching footsteps, his eyes half-closed. If he played dead, either the tribute would pass him by, and then he could get a good look at them and decide whether or not to attack, or the other tribute might try to steal his supplies, in which case Alasdair could spring up and attack them while their guard was down. The might be enough.

He wasn't sure which one to hope for.

He would have to fight eventually. Maybe it was better to start now. If he could eliminate one of the other two tributes, then there would only be one left. Only one tribute to fight. Only one more to kill. But if he _didn't _fight, if he _didn't _kill them, then maybe the tribute would find the other remaining one, and _they _could fight. And then he could fight whoever was left, and hope they'd been injured in the fight.

_Stop thinking_.

Thinking about it was making him nervous. Being nervous was making his breathing louder. Breathing loudly made playing dead a _lot _harder.

Alasdair clenched his teeth and tried to lie still. The footsteps were louder now. He could see a shape. A shadow on the wall. It looked tall, but maybe that was just a trick of the light. Because the tribute who appeared out of the shadows wasn't particularly large or strong. Nor did he seem to be in a hurry. He was walking slowly. Tentatively. Injured, or simply tired and cautious? Blood stained his shirt, but whether it was his or another tribute's, Alasdair wasn't sure.

Either way, the boy stopped when he saw Alasdair.

For a long moment, he simply stood there. Maybe thinking through his options, weighing the possibilities. The same thing Alasdair had been doing. Alasdair bit his tongue. They were more alike then different – all of them. Especially the ones who had lasted this long. The ones who were still here. They were all tired. None of them wanted to fight. But they all wanted to go home.

And only one of them could.

The boy took a few steps closer. Closer. Alasdair watched through half-closed eyes as the boy crouched down a few yards away, trying to get a better look.

He knew.

And he was holding a dagger.

Alasdair didn't have much choice now.

He sprang up as quickly as he could, but the other boy was quicker. The dagger came down, narrowly missing Alasdair's neck, grazing his shoulder a little as he sprang to his feet. Alasdair staggered backwards, trying to get his bearings. The other boy wasn't big, but he was bigger than Alasdair. Older. Stronger. Better armed.

Not a good combination.

Alasdair ran. The other boy followed. But not very quickly. Alasdair slowed. The other boy slowed, too. He was _letting_ Alasdair run. Letting him lead.

The hallway forked – one of the paths glowing, one of them darker. Alasdair followed the glowing path. He was leading the other boy, but the Gamemakers were leading him. Leading them both. Drawing them all together for one last fight.

A fight only one of them could win.

* * *

**Elijah Whitaker  
****District Eleven Mentor**

"Was it my fault?"

Elijah couldn't take his eyes off the screen. Lynher was dead. Just like that. Without even the chance to fight back. "I thought it would be safe for him to sleep," Elijah said quietly. "I thought he would be safe for a while."

Ivy nodded. "And he was. For a while. Something was bound to happen eventually. It was just a matter of when." She shook her head. "But it's not your fault. It's his."

Elijah turned, startled. "Ivy, he's dead. Don't you—"

"Care? Of course I do. But caring isn't going to bring him back. He's dead, and it's his own fault. Sure, you sent him the medicine, but he woke up since then. You could tell he was thinking about getting up … but he didn't. That's the difference between him and the other three. He gave up."

"He was tired!"

"And? You think they're not? _You _were tired near the end of your Games. Did you lie down and go to sleep?"

"No, but—"

"And why not?"

"I … I just thought … I was so close, I figured I could make it a little longer. Then a little longer. And…"

"And what?"

"I was too scared to sleep," Elijah admitted. "Scared of what just happened to Lynher – dying and not even knowing it. Everyone always says that's the best way to go, but … I'd rather know. Even if it hurts, I'd rather know that I'm dying, and maybe have a chance to fight back."

Ivy nodded. "Exactly. But Lynher didn't. Maybe part of him realized that he didn't really have a chance – not with that wound. Maybe part of him thought it would be easier to let someone else find him, that it would be easier if he wasn't awake when…" She trailed off when she saw the tears in Elijah's eyes. "I'm sorry. It's always hard the first time."

Elijah swallowed hard. "Does it get easier?"

Ivy thought for a moment. "Yes, actually. It sounds terrible, but … yes, it does. After a while, you almost start to expect it. You start thinking that maybe you were just a fluke, that no one else from your district really has a chance." She shook her head. "That's what happened to me, at least. I hope you don't have to wait as long as I did for your first victor."

Elijah looked away. She was right – he hadn't wanted to wait. He had wanted it to be this year. He had wanted it to be Lynher. And he had come so close. So close.

But not close enough.

* * *

"_It's easy to fight when you've got a lot to work with. The real crunch comes when you're down to almost nothing. Then you either play it safe and you probably lose it all, or you take a chance."_


	42. Survive

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yeah, I know, really quick update. I had it in my head, and I couldn't resist writing it.

Friendly reminder to vote in the poll if you haven't already.

Last but not least, submissions for my new SYOT are now open. (Yes, I'm getting quite addicted to these things.) The tribute form, details, and a few guidelines will be up on my profile shortly. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.

So now, without further ado, the finale.

* * *

**Day Seven - Finale  
****Survive**

* * *

**Alistern Elbridge  
****Bartender**

He wished they could all win.

Alistern poured another round of drinks as the mentors gathered around the bar counter. It was past midnight now, but everyone was awake. Alert. Waiting. That was all they could do now: wait.

Tania, Harakuise, and Sabine sat together, each of the older mentors with an arm around Sabine's shoulders. Waiting to see if this year would add another member to their strange little family. Mags and Misha stood nearby, maybe hoping that if Mercury won, at least Barclay's sacrifice would mean something.

Of course, he had saved Alasdair, as well – a fact that Miriam was certainly aware of as she sat glued to the screen, watching her tribute run for his life once more. Carolina sat beside her, with Lander standing behind, silently hoping that Alasdair would pull through. For Enzo. Crispin stood beside Lander, supporting Alasdair for the same reason – for Dennar. Tobiah was slumped over on a couch in the corner, drunk out of his wits, or he would probably have been standing there, too, making some joke about hoping Alasdair could run faster.

But he couldn't keep running forever. The Gamemakers were herding Alasdair and Brennan towards Mercury, but what would happen when they got there? If Alasdair got there alive, would Mercury spare him long enough for them to take on Brennan together? And if they managed to win that fight – if they ended up facing each other – did Alasdair have what it took, physically and mentally, to kill Mercury?

Did Mercury have what it took to kill him?

Or would Brennan strike first? Silas sat at the end of the bar, quietly drumming his fingers on the counter, hoping Brennan would make his move. Brennan had no way of knowing, of course, that the other two had been allies. That if he let Alasdair reach Mercury first, he might very well be facing a two-on-one fight instead of what he was probably hoping for – that they might kill or at least distract each other, allowing him to make his own move while they were occupied.

Sitting beside Silas, Glenn offered the older mentor a reassuring pat on the back. Maybe he still believed that Grace would have wanted Brennan to win – even after what had happened to Blythe. Whether that was true or not, Alistern wasn't sure, but Silas smiled back gratefully and took another drink.

His work was done. Everyone's was. There was nothing more that he or Miriam or Sabine could do. Everything was in the tributes' hands now.

There was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

Did they just want her to wait?

Mercury paced back and forth in the hall outside the infirmary. There were only three of them left, but if the Gamemakers wanted her to be somewhere in particular, they certainly weren't making it clear. And she had no idea where the other tributes. She hadn't seen any mutts, or even any sort of lights indicating where the finale was going to take place.

Did that mean she was already where they wanted her?

Mercury fingered the hand sickle impatiently. Where were the others? How long had it been since the boy's cannon had sounded? Minutes? Hours? No, probably not hours. It probably only felt like that long, since she was the one waiting. Just waiting.

Slowly, she ventured a little farther down the hallway. Nothing made a move to stop her. There was nothing. Nothing at all.

Okay. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it meant the other two tributes – whoever they were – were fighting somewhere in the arena. That was good. If one of them killed the other, she would only have to fight one. And the other tribute would be tired. Maybe injured. Probably injured, if the fight was lasting this long. The longer it lasted, the more tired the other tribute would be. That was a good thing.

She just wished she could see them. Get some idea of who was left. Something. Anything besides standing here.

_So start walking_.

Mercury took a few steps down the hall. Then a few more. Nothing stopped her, but nothing chased her, either. She was pretty sure she was walking away from the cornucopia. Did that mean the tributes were in this direction? Surely the Gamemakers would stop her if she was going the wrong way. So they must be this way.

Alasdair had run the other way.

Mercury shook the thought from her head. _Stop worrying about Alasdair._ Alasdair wasn't an ally anymore. If he was still alive, he was competition. One of only two people standing between her and home.

And he was probably dead.

Suddenly, Mercury noticed something glowing above her, brighter than the rest of the hallway. Some sort of cable, running along the ceiling. Was she supposed to follow it? Maybe. It seemed to be going in the same direction she was, anyway. Mercury shrugged and followed the cable until it came to an end. She glanced around. Was she supposed to wait here?

She wished she knew what was going on.

* * *

**Alasdair Bryant, 12  
****District Three**

He wished he knew what was going on.

Alasdair kept running along the hallway, following the glowing lights. How long had they been running? Minutes? Hours? No, probably not hours. They would have reached something by now. Something, or someone. Where was the other tribute?

_Who_ was the other tribute?

As far as he could tell, they were being driven back towards the cornucopia. Mercury was in this direction. Was she the other one left?

_Stop worrying about Mercury. Just run._

Part of him wished the other boy would just catch him. Alasdair was pretty sure he could if he wanted to. But, instead, he was letting him go. Maybe hoping that if he let Alasdair lead, the other tribute might go after him first.

Maybe he was right.

Suddenly, Alasdair saw something up ahead. Some sort of train car, right in their path. It was glowing – brighter than the hallway around him, brighter even than the hall up ahead. Was he supposed to go inside?

Why not?

Maybe if he reached it first…

Alasdair heaved another breath, sprinting as fast as he could. If he got there first, if the doors closed behind him, maybe he could rest for a little while. Maybe.

Maybe.

But first he had to get there.

Just a few more steps. Just a few more. _Breathe. Just breathe. _One foot. Then another.

He was inside.

But the doors didn't close.

Alasdair hurried to the back of the train car and pressed his back against the wall. "Close the doors," he whispered, pleading with the Gamemakers to listen, just this once. "Close the doors. Just close the doors."

But they didn't. Not until the other boy stepped inside. The doors slid shut immediately, and the train car roared to life, knocking the other boy off his feet.

Alasdair didn't have time to think. He simply sprang forward, knife in hand, on top of his startled opponent. The other boy gave a shout but managed to raise his weapon in time, blocking Alasdair's knife once. Twice.

Okay. New plan. He had a knife. The other boy had a dagger – and a reach at least a few inches longer than his. Alasdair sprang back as the other boy got to his feet, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible.

_Stall_. He needed to stall. He needed time. Time to catch his breath. Time to think of something else. He wasn't going to win this one with a knife. He would have to think his way out of it.

But, for that, he needed time.

The other boy looked him over once. Thinking through his options. Maybe trying to decide the best way to kill him, the quickest way to get rid of him without getting himself injured in the process.

Alasdair could use that.

If they fought right now, he would probably lose. But he could make it hurt. He might be able to injure the other boy – something the boy was clearly thinking about already. He'd been favoring one arm as he'd gotten to his feet. He was already injured. He wouldn't want to hurt himself more before taking on his final opponent.

Alasdair took a deep breath.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

"Alasdair."

Brennan stared at the younger boy, startled. This wasn't what he'd expected at all. "What?"

"Alasdair. My name's Alasdair. What's yours?"

Brennan shook his head. "You don't want to know my name. We're going to be killing each other in a few minutes. Why would you want to know my name?"

The boy shrugged. "I just figured … I'd want to know who was killing me. Or who I'm killing, if it ends up going that way. I'd sure like to know who the other tribute is, too, before we get there. Any idea who it might be?"

Brennan shook his head suspiciously, his dagger still poised and ready. Should he pretend to know? Chances were, Alasdair didn't know, either. So there was no harm in admitting he didn't have a clue. And no real advantage in letting Alasdair think otherwise. Not when one of them would be dead soon, anyway. "No," he admitted. "No idea. You?"

Alasdair shook his head. "None. But, whoever it is … Wouldn't we have a better chance together?"

Brennan blinked. Was he suggesting an alliance?

On the one hand, it made a little sense. Whoever was waiting for them once they stepped off the train might be older and stronger than both of them. They might have a better chance together. At the very least, leaving Alasdair alive might distract the other tribute long enough for him to make his move.

But did it really make sense, or did he just want an excuse not to kill the little boy in front of him?

The younger boy was shaking. Brennan's hands were trembling. The boy was offering him a way out. A way to spare him – at least for now – and still save face with the audience. It wasn't a bad idea.

But it wasn't a good idea, either.

And he had a better one.

Brennan took a trembling step forward. He hadn't been shaking this badly since … since the private training sessions. When he'd killed the rabbit. An innocent little creature that, like the boy in front of him now, hadn't done anything to him. Hadn't done anything to deserve this. They both just happened to be in the wrong place at the very, very wrong time.

Brennan gripped his dagger tightly as he took another step towards the boy. Alasdair took a step backwards, but, soon, he was backed up against the wall. "I'm sorry," Brennan said quietly. "But you're wrong. I have a better chance alone."

He lunged. Alasdair dove to the right, but he had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Brennan's reach and his weapon were both longer, and Alasdair was left trying to block a dagger with a knife. He somehow managed to dodge the first blow, but the second sliced past his knife and across his chest. Alasdair lunged forward, still gripping his knife, maybe hoping to at least do some damage, to take Brennan out with him.

But Brennan was ready. The knife grazed his side, but nothing worse, as the younger boy toppled over, blood pouring from the wound in his chest. A blow to the arm sent Alasdair's knife clattering to the floor. Brennan knelt by the younger boy. "Brennan," he said quietly. The boy stared, uncomprehending, already half-gone. "You wanted to know my name," he explained. "It's Brennan."

Alasdair smiled a little as his cannon sounded.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

The cannon sounded.

Mercury couldn't help smiling a little. So she'd been right. The long wait _had _meant that the other tributes were fighting. And now there was only one of them left. Only one tribute for her to face.

And the train car was coming closer.

Mercury ducked low as the train car approached, hoping the other tribute wasn't looking out the window. Probably not. The cannon had just sounded. They would still be recovering. There was no reason for them to suspect that she was right here, just waiting for them.

But she still had to be careful. Anyone could be in that train. Well, not quite _anyone_, but there were still enough possibilities left. Still enough tributes who could easily beat her in a fair fight.

Which was why she didn't intend for it to be a fair fight.

The train car screeched to a halt, and Mercury sprang to her feet, dashing towards the door of the train and taking her place beside it, her back pressed against the side of the train car, her sickle ready. _Just open the door. Just open the door._

The door slid open.

Something fell out.

Mercury's sickle sliced through the air, finding flesh. A body crumpled to the ground. A small body. Mercury stared. Alasdair. So it had been him, after all.

But no cannon sounded.

Something struck her in the side.

Mercury turned in time to see the boy. The _other _boy. The one who had flung Alasdair's body from the train to distract her.

For an instant, relief washed through her. Relief that she hadn't killed Alasdair. That she wouldn't have to kill him. That, instead, she could avenge him. He was gone, but he would want her to win now.

But now she was injured.

Mercury dodged the second blow, but her side was bleeding. She couldn't tell how badly, but she could feel the pain, the warmth as the blood soaked her shirt. She couldn't stop to look. She blocked one blow. Then another. No time to breathe. No time to think.

Time. She needed time.

But she didn't have it.

The boy was driving her backwards. Mercury glanced behind her – away from the train, away from the direction she had come, away from the cornucopia. She blocked one more blow, then took off running. She couldn't outrun him for long – even without her wound, the hallway had to end eventually, just as the train cable had – but she could buy herself a little time.

Time to think.

The hallway widened, revealing the remains of a doorway up ahead. Mercury clambered over a pile of rubble and into a large, domed room. A dead end. A dead end of glass and darkness and stars. But there had to be something. Something she could use. Anything.

Anything at all.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

It was just like chasing rats.

Brennan barely noticed Elaine's body as he barreled into the room, a few seconds behind the girl. No, not just a girl. Not anymore. His tribute. His prey.

His last prey.

She was hiding behind a row of panels. Cornered. Trapped. Bleeding from the wound in her side. Maybe he could simply wait her out. Maybe she would bleed to death. But that would mean giving her time. Time to think of something. Time to reason her way out of this.

But this wasn't the time for reason. This was the time to let instinct take over. Brennan ran forward – no hesitation, no doubts. The girl smiled a little.

Then, just as he reached her, she swung – but not at him. Her sickle struck the panels, sending sparks flying in every direction. Another blow sent more sparks, and a third must have struck something deeper, because a loud bang alerted him to the fact that something had exploded.

Brennan could feel himself being thrown backwards. Despite his efforts to keep hold of it, the dagger flew out of his hand as he landed on his back with a terrible jolt. Brennan gasped, expecting an attack at any moment. But the girl had been thrown, as well. She lay beside him. Weaponless.

But not defenseless.

In an instant, he felt her hands around his throat. Brennan lashed out, striking her arms with all his strength. But her grip held. Brennan gasped for air, but none came.

So he grabbed at her throat, instead.

And he squeezed.

And she squeezed.

Dizziness. Pain. Pain that coursed through his injured wrist as he forced his hands to squeeze harder and harder. Just a little longer. He just had to hold onto consciousness a little longer than she could. Just a little.

Just a little.

* * *

**Mercury Helix, 15  
****District Five**

Just a little longer.

Mercury could feel consciousness starting to slip away. Her vision was blurring. Everything was going numb. She could barely tell whether she was still holding onto the boy's neck or not.

But she must be. Because she was still alive. If she had let go, he would have finished her off.

But he was still holding on, too.

Just a little longer. She just had to hold on a little longer than he could.

But everything seemed so numb. So cold. Everything except the blood, flowing from the wound in her side. That was warm. So warm. She could almost taste it.

No, she _could _taste it. Blood in her mouth. Sour and sickly. Mercury could feel tears coming to her eyes. No. No, she couldn't die like this. Not like this.

But then how?

Maybe there wasn't an answer. Maybe there wasn't a good way to die. Maybe this was as good a way as any – here, now. Through blurred vision, she could still see the boy lying on the floor next to her, desperately clinging to life. But his face didn't even look like his own anymore. She could almost see someone else.

Barclay. Kinley. Maybe a little of Asteria, and a little of Alasdair. Mirami and Niles. Would it be so bad to join them, instead?

Would it hurt?

Mercury struggled to hold on, but she could already tell her grip was slipping. Slowly slipping. Her fingers were going numb. It was only a matter of time before…

Before she had to let go.

Her fingers were slipping. Everything was getting so dark. So dark, anyway, that it wouldn't hurt to close her eyes. Yes, she could close her eyes. Maybe even sleep.

She wondered if she would dream…

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine, 15  
****District Twelve**

The cannon sounded.

Brennan gasped as the girl's hands slipped from his throat. For a second, he had been sure the cannon had been his. But he was still alive.

Still alive.

Everything was still fuzzy. Blurry. He was so dizzy. He couldn't get up. Something was holding him down.

No. No, that was okay. He didn't need to get up. They would come get him. They had to. He was the…

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games: Brennan Aldaine!"

The Victor. Yes, that was it. He was the Victor. But that didn't matter right now. He was something much more important.

He was alive.

Footsteps. Brenann didn't have the strength to turn. Slowly, they came into view. Three – no, four. Four figures, tall and strong. Wearing uniforms. Ready to take him back. Take him home.

One of them said something. Something he couldn't make out. They seemed to be both mumbling and shouting. Words – there were definitely words there, but he couldn't make sense of them.

Another one knelt beside him. He could almost make out a face. A face that looked almost like Blythe's.

No. No, Blythe was dead. He was alive. _You're still alive._

The woman said something. He could almost make it out this time. "Wh—" he tried to say, but his throat wouldn't work right. Of course not. Stupid. He'd almost been choked to death. Of course he couldn't speak.

But the woman could. And, this time, he could make it out. "Brennan. You can let go now."

Oh.

So that was what was holding him. Or, rather, he was still holding her. His left hand was free, but his right was still wrapped tightly around the girl's throat. Brennan loosened his grip. Or, at least, he thought he had. But when he looked, he was still holding on.

He couldn't let go.

* * *

**Penelope Danvers  
****Shuttle Pilot**

It took a few minutes to pry Mercury's throat from his grip.

Penelope watched as the medics carefully lifted their newest Victor onto a stretcher. She led the way back to the shuttle, trying not to glance back at the boy behind her. But, once they'd settled into the shuttle, once they'd left the station behind and once their course was set – then she looked back.

He was barely conscious. Fading in and out. Partly due to almost having the life choked out of him, and partly due to the odd shifts in gravity as they left the station and entered orbit, then as they entered the atmosphere. The five of them were strapped in, of course, but that didn't make it any easier on the stomach.

She wondered if that smell was regurgitated rat.

Penelope shook the thought from her head. This was an honor – piloting the shuttle that would bring the Victor back to the Capitol. That was what they'd told her, at least. A great honor to be selected.

But it wasn't quite what she'd imagined.

She'd never smelled blood – _that _much blood – at least not up close. She'd never seen a dead body up close.

And she'd never seen anyone's fist clenched so tightly.

She couldn't help looking at it again – the way his right fist was still curled up tightly, as if he was still holding onto the girl's throat, still not quite convinced that she was dead, that he was safe. Just the right, one, though – maybe he simply _couldn't _let go. He'd injured that wrist near the beginning of the Games. Maybe it had been worse than they'd thought. Maybe there was some sort of damage inside…

But she wasn't a doctor. She was a pilot. The doctors would figure everything out. They would make him as good as new. That wasn't her job.

Her job was to get him there.

It was getting warmer inside the shuttle. But that was supposed to happen. There was a heat shield, but, still, the atmosphere outside, the speed, the friction.

Penelope shook her head. Understanding the science behind it wasn't her job, either. Her job was to pilot this heap of metal.

And they were almost there.

Penelope released the parachutes, and their descent began to slow. Little by little. Carefully. Almost there.

She could see the field. The landing site that had been prepared. The hovercraft that was waiting to take them the rest of the way – into the mountains surrounding the Capitol, where they didn't dare try to land the shuttle. A hundred feet from the ground. Fifty. Twenty.

Ten.

Five.

The wheels touched the ground with only a very gentle bump. Penelope grinned. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. She glanced back to see what District Twelve's very first Victor had thought of the trip.

But Brennan had passed out.

* * *

"_You do not make history. You can only hope to survive it."_


	43. The Sum of our Tears

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Results of the poll are up on the blog. One last poll for this story on my profile, this time asking which deaths were your favorites. Feel free to vote for as many as you like.

Shout-out to my little brother, Greybeard mmmmmm3, who has entered the SYOT world! He's got an open SYOT, which there's a link to on my profile. Send some tributes his way!

Lastly, for those of you who are wondering, this story does have one more chapter coming.

* * *

**The Sum of Our Tears**

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****Victor of the 25****th**** Hunger Games**

The first thing he noticed was the silence.

For what seemed like a long time, Brennan simply lay perfectly still, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Breathing. He was still breathing. He was still alive.

Aside from the soft whisper of his own breath, everything was silent. He hadn't realized how much he'd gotten used to the humming of the station. And then the music. The music that had drawn him, urged him onwards.

It was gone now. All gone. And the other tributes – all gone. All dead.

And he was still alive.

Slowly, Brennan opened his eyes. The lights in the room were dim. Gentle. The ceiling, the walls, the floor – all were a soft, muted white. The bed was soft, the blankets warm and welcoming. A tube ran into his left arm, but his gaze was drawn to his right. To his hand, still tightly clenched, lying on top of the blankets.

Brennan tried to sit up a little, but a wave of dizziness stopped him. "Easy there," came a voice, as if out of a dream. "Take it easy." Two strong hands helped him lie back down, then adjusted the flow of liquids into his arm. "Rest. Just rest. You're safe."

Safe.

He was safe.

Brennan clung to that thought as he drifted off to sleep once more.

* * *

He woke several hours later to a terrible thirst. Still dizzy and disoriented from whatever medicine was filling his veins, Brennan was barely aware of someone helping him sit up and gently tilting a glass until the taste of fresh water filled his mouth.

He had never tasted anything so good.

"How do you feel?" asked a voice.

A familiar voice.

Brennan couldn't help shrinking away a little as he realized who was helping him. But, as he pulled away from Silas' arms, he simply collapsed back on the bed, coughing uncontrollably as the water ran down his throat. "It's all right, Brennan," Silas insisted. "It's all right. It's me."

Finally, Brennan stopped coughing long enough to look his mentor in the eye. But what was he supposed to say? Instead, his gaze strayed to the glass of water in Silas' hands. Silas held it out, and Brennan instinctively reached for it with his right hand before realizing that was useless.

"Interesting," Silas muttered as Brennan took the glass in his left, instead. "The doctors weren't quite sure what to make of it, either. Nerve damage, one of them said – caused by a combination of your injured wrist and the tension from squeezing so hard. But they couldn't find any sign of physical injury. Nerves can be tricky, of course – sometimes the damage is practically undetectable – but still…"

Brennan didn't answer. Couldn't answer. He took a long drink of water, then stared at his fingers, trying to move them, to unclench his fist. Nothing.

"Does it hurt?" Silas asked, concerned.

Brennan shook his head. Whether it was the drugs or whether he was simply too tired to feel anything, he wasn't sure. But it didn't hurt. Not much, anyways. Certainly not as much as it had in the arena.

The arena.

Memories came flooding back as his head started to clear. The arena. The tributes.

Elaine. Grace.

Blythe.

Brennan could feel tears brimming in his eyes. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout. He wanted to take his fist and slam it into Silas' smug Capitol face.

But that wouldn't change what had happened. What Silas had done. What _he_ had done. It wouldn't bring Blythe back.

And if Blythe were alive, instead, he would be dead. Did he want that?

No. No, if he'd wanted that, all he'd had to do was let go of the girl's throat a little sooner. Let her win. But he'd held on. Because he hadn't wanted to die. And, more than that, he'd wanted to live.

He still wanted to live.

Brennan swallowed hard and turned to Silas. His voice was still hoarse when he spoke, and he only managed to get two words out. But they were the two words he needed to say. "Thank you."

Silas simply nodded. "You're welcome."

* * *

It almost didn't feel real.

Brennan fumbled around for a moment, trying to button his shirt one-handed, before Silas reached over and finished the job himself. Black shirt. Black slacks. Black socks and boots. He felt like he was going to a funeral.

And, in a way, of course, he was. A funeral and a victory. How was he supposed to mourn, when their deaths meant that he was alive? But how could he celebrate, when thirty-five innocent people had died? What was he supposed to say?

"You won't have to say much," Silas answered, as if he'd read Brennan's mind. "Just watch the video. Smile. Cry. Cheer. Rage. Whatever will help. Whatever feels real."

It _didn't _feel real. Thirty-five people were dead. How could _he _be the one who had survived?

"One more thing." Silas reached into a bag and removed a pair of gloves. Brennan wasn't sure what they were made of, but the right one slid perfectly over his hand, which still stubbornly refused to open.

"Thank you," Brennan said quietly. He hadn't wanted to draw attention to his injury. All of Panem would be watching. His family would be watching. Part of him knew he shouldn't care, but he didn't want to look weak. The gloves helped.

But only a little. Some twenty minutes later, as he took a seat onstage next to Cornelius, he still felt weak. Small. As if he were about to be thrust back into the arena.

Cornelius said something. Still a bit dazed by the lights, Brennan nodded along. _You won't have to say much_. Fortunately, Silas was right; Cornelius talked enough for both of them. Soon, the video began playing.

It was like watching a dream. As if everything in the arena had happened to someone else, far away. Or maybe what had happened then was real, and he was dreaming now.

The reapings played first. Name after name after name. The faces and names were familiar, but most of them, he'd never really known. One by one, they flashed on the screen, but a few stayed with him. The faces of the tributes he'd killed. Now he had names to go with the faces. Alasdair. Mercury. Saoirse. Asteria.

And Blythe. Brennan watched as Blythe took the stage. Then he saw himself join her. Reach for her hand. Blythe gripped it – trusting him a little, even then.

And he'd killed her.

Training. Interviews. He could hear his own voice trying to form coherent thoughts during the interviews, trying to put into words what he had been feeling. "I think – if it makes any sense – that the fact that I recognize I don't have any advantage over them … gives me an advantage. I'm not trained. I'm not outrageously strong. I'm not a genius. I'm just a kid from District Twelve."

But he wasn't. Not anymore. He was a killer. A murderer.

A victor.

After the interviews, the tape jumped right into the arena. The bloodbath. Brennan watched, almost curious, as the names of the dead flashed onscreen as they were killed. Almost immediately, Hogan was taken down by one of his allies. Mirami was killed by her district partner, Niles, who was, in turn, killed by his own ally. The lights came on, and Viktoria was killed by the girl from Four. Luke and Dewan attacked each other, a fight that ended with Luke's death and Dewan's escape.

But it was Saoirse who caught Brennan's eye. The girl he'd killed. He watched as she attacked Jazz after the older girl had tried to attack her ally. Brennan felt a lump in his throat. She'd killed to protect her ally. He'd killed her for food.

Food he'd needed. Food his allies had needed. Brennan shook the thought from his head as he watched himself on the screen once more. He, Blythe, Grace, and Elaine found the domed room, and they and other tributes settled in for the night.

But not Francis. To Brennan's surprise, his district partner and his allies had gained both supplies and weapons in the bloodbath, and had sent out to hunt. Brennan shuddered, grateful he'd never run into them.

Daedem killed his own district partner, Henri, without any hesitation. The other girl, Radiance, fled, only to be found by the girls from Six. Brennan shook his head, surprised by how blissfully unaware he and the others had been of the fighting going on a mere section or two away.

On the other side of the station, Asteria had put together what Brennan and his allies had never realized: the cannons controlled the lights. Three cannons to turn them on. Three to turn them off. Brennan shook his head. How had they never noticed?

Back at the cornucopia, the Careers – or, at least, the tributes passing as Careers – were getting restless. Calissa wanted to go hunting; the others wanted to wait a while, wait for tributes to come to them. Simone attacked Calissa as she slept, and Adrian finished her off. On the other end of the station, neither wanting to start a fight, Corvo and Bakaari formed an alliance in a room full of supplies.

Meanwhile, Eigen attacked Alasdair, only to be killed by his ally, Dennar. Brennan watched, surprised, as both Alasdair and Dennar broke down in tears and shock. Brennan leaned forward a little, curious. How had the younger boy made it to the final three?

Other tributes began to set their plans in motion. Dewan found the shuttle car and crouched inside, lying in wait. Francis and his allies were planning to attack the cornucopia. Shilo, on the other hand, was lured to a large room, where a door opened into space. Mercury and her allies killed a mutt and quickly settled down for dinner. Meanwhile, Brennan's own alliance split up to look for supplies. He and Grace found the pair from Seven and decided to wait for the lights to go off, not realizing that what they were really waiting for was another cannon.

It was a cannon that came quickly. The girls from Six found Natasha and gave chase, corralling her to the shuttle car, where Dewan was waiting. After a short fight, Dewan pushed her out of the shuttle, and she fell to the ground far below, where her district partner Alasdair and his allies waited with her while she died.

As soon as the cannon sounded and the lights went out, chaos erupted at the cornucopia. Francis and his allies weren't the only ones with plans to attack; Fletcher rushed in before they could, darting past the boy who was guarding the door and going straight for the supplies. Francis and his allies followed, and Simone ran, leaving Adrian to defend the cornucopia alone. Fletcher attempted to flee while he still could, but Lynher tackled and quickly killed him.

Meanwhile, Adrian managed a blow to Daedem's leg, but, before he could finish him off, Francis stepped in. Brennan stared. Francis could have run. Could have escaped. But he'd chosen to stay and defend an ally. In the end, he'd been a better ally than Brennan had.

And he was dead.

Francis and Adrian killed each other, triggering the lights before Brennan and Grace even had a chance to make their move. Even with the element of surprise gone, they won the fight. He killed Saoirse. Grace killed Jason. They gathered their supplies, found the running water, and headed back to their allies.

It seemed so long ago.

At the cornucopia, Francis' surviving allies disagreed about whether it was better to stay. Lynher took off, leaving Daedem, already injured, at the mercy of the pair from Six, who swooped in and easily finished him off.

Fleeing from the cornucopia, Simone came across Corvo and Bakaari, leaving Bakaari dead and Corvo vowing revenge. A little while later, Mercury and her allies came across Alasdair and his, but neither group made a move to attack the other until mutts intervened, killing both Enzo and Kinley before Asteria realized what had to be done. She went after Alasdair, but Dennar jumped in the way, instead, and Asteria killed her own district partner before fleeing. Mercury and Barclay took Alasdair in as an ally, filling a void for both of them.

Brennan nodded, grateful that he'd decided not to accept Alasdair's proposal of an alliance. The little boy had no way of knowing, of course, that it was his ally who was left, but Brennan had no doubt that, if he had seen her, the two of them would have turned on him, instead. As terrible as it sounded, killing the younger boy right away had been the right choice.

Meanwhile, Dewan, followed by a group of mutts, arrived at the dome. The mutts smashed through the door, where Elaine was waiting for him – to no avail. He quickly killed her, but Brennan, Blythe, and Grace took off. Dewan gave chase. Blythe threw him her pack of supplies. Dewan stopped, but the mutts didn't. "Take care of her," Grace told him, then turned back to draw them off.

Now he could see what had happened. Dewan and the mutts followed Grace back to the dome, where the mutts attacked her long enough to force her under some sort of cylinder. The ceiling started to open, and Brennan half-expected her to be sucked out into space, like Shilo had.

But what happened was worse. A beam of light came from the ceiling, slowly burning her to death. Hair, clothes, skin – all burned away. Brennan wanted to look away, but, somehow, he couldn't help but watch as his ally sank to her knees and whispered those strange words one more time. "_Entil'zha veni."_

Then she was gone. Dead. Her body reduced to ashes. Brennan leaned back in his chair, dazed. Her dream … the voice … _Will you follow me into fire?_

Had she _known_?

No. No, there was no way she could have known exactly what would happen. But she had certainly known, when she had turned back to draw off the mutts, that she wouldn't survive. But she'd wanted to make sure that he and Blythe would.

And he had. He had survived. He was still here. And he had her to thank for it.

But was he the one she would have wanted to survive? Or was Blythe?

For a while, everything was a blur. Asteria and Simone allied long enough to kill Corvo, only to turn on each other. The fight left Simone dead and Asteria injured. Meanwhile, Mercury headed to the cornucopia to fetch supplies for Barclay, her injured ally. She made it to the cornucopia, only to be cornered by the girls from Six. Cassandra made a move to attack her, but Mercury, pretending to be injured, was quicker, stabbing Cassandra in the chest. Ryzer ran, but Mercury didn't follow. She hadn't come to kill; she had come for medicine.

Brennan swallowed hard. While she was trying to protect her ally, he had left his. Scared Blythe away with what he had believed were empty words. "I'm giving you a chance to go without a fight, so go. Before I change my mind."

She went.

Fleeing from the cornucopia, Ryzer ran past Lynher, who gave chase, and then Dewan, who caught both of them quickly. The fight was quick and bloody, leaving only Lynher alive – alive, but badly injured. A parachute with medicine coaxed him into relative safety in the infirmary, and he settled down to rest.

The tape returned to Brennan, and he could see himself catching rats, following them through the tunnels of the station. Then he saw the mutt. Heard the singing. Brennan breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had begun to wonder if the mutt was real, or if he had imagined that moment. That song.

But it was real. The song was real. And it was beautiful. Even there, in the midst of the Games, he had known that. Known that this was a moment he would never have again. One moment of perfect beauty.

Meanwhile, gas flooded the cornucopia, where Mercury, Alasdair, and Barclay had thought they would be safe. Two gas masks were all they had. Alasdair took one. Barclay gave the other to Mercury. Another tribute who had given their life for an ally. Another tribute who had done what Brennan had thought he would be able to.

Another tribute who had paid the price for his selflessness.

Barclay quickly succumbed to the gas, leaving Alasdair and Mercury trapped in the room alone. Alasdair played dead long enough for the Gamemakers to let them out, and they fled in opposite directions.

Meanwhile, Blythe had found the room where Asteria was resting. Mutts crashed through the wall, and Blythe ran. Asteria tried to follow, but she was hurt too badly. The mutts began to electrocute her, stopping only when Brennan arrived.

Brennan shuddered a little when he saw himself – dirty, disheveled, his mouth covered in rats' blood. He knelt by Asteria, and she told him where Blythe had gone – without knowing, of course, that it was Blythe. And he repaid her by killing her.

Brennan shook the thought from his head. What else could he have done? If he had left her alive, the mutts would have finished the job, anyway – and more slowly. At least this way, it had been quick. Still, he could almost feel her grip again as he watched her grab his arm and whisper, "You're next."

But he hadn't been next. Blythe had. He recognized her first – though he had hoped that he was wrong. He cursed Silas for sending the message. Himself for following it. Blythe for being so stupid.

Brennan felt a lump in his throat as he heard the words. On the train, Blythe had told Silas that she wanted to be smart. That was how she'd wanted to seem for the audience. And she _had _been smart.

And the last thing he had said to her was that she was stupid.

Brennan looked away. He didn't want to see this. She hadn't been stupid; she had been _trusting_. She had trusted him. And he had attacked her. She'd been unarmed. Defenseless. This wasn't a fight. It was murder.

Tears finally spilled from Brennan's eyes as he looked up at the screen, at Blythe's body, red with blood. Blood he had spilled.

But Mercury spilled blood, too. Later the same day, she found Lynher in the infirmary and killed him in his sleep, then prepared for the coming fight.

She didn't have to wait long. Brennan found Alasdair, and, after chasing him into the shuttle car, killed him without much of a struggle, then threw his body from the train to distract Mercury. It wasn't much of a strategy, but it was enough. His dagger sliced across her side, and, after a few more blows, she ran. Back to the dome.

He charged blindly. She blew out the control panels. Soon, the two of them lay on the floor, choking the life out of each other.

Her life just happened to slip away first.

The cannon sounded. The announcement, proclaiming him the victor. Still, he held on, clinging to her neck, unable to let go. Brennan glanced down at his fist, still clenched inside his glove.

He wondered if he would ever be able to let go.

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

Brennan was silent during the train ride.

Silas watched as Brennan slipped his glove on, hiding his crippled hand. "Are you all right?" Silas asked, trying not to sound protective. But he'd grown fond of Brennan, despite himself. And now he could get attached. Now he could have a conversation without having to wonder if Brennan would be alive in a few days.

Brennan nodded. "I think so. I just … What will they think?"

Silas stood up slowly as the train began to slow. "I think they'll be glad you're alive. Everything else … It'll take time. The important thing is, you _have _that time."

Brennan nodded a little, but Silas could tell he was still uneasy. "Blythe's family … They'll be there … they … I …" He closed his eyes, trying not to cry. "I never wanted to kill her, Silas."

Silas wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "And I never wanted you to. But I did what I had to do, and so did you." He shook his head. "I know I'm not technically your mentor anymore, but can I give you one last piece of advice?"

Brennan nodded, his eyes hungry for comfort. Silas wished he had some to give. Instead, he squeezed Brennan's shoulders tightly and gave the only advice he could. "Cry."

"What?"

"Cry. Weep. Scream and wail and let it all out – no matter what anyone else thinks. They may not understand, but sometimes that's the only way to get through this. Whatever you need to do to cope – that's what you should do. But only for an hour."

"An hour?"

Silas nodded. "Or however long you decide. The amount isn't important. Find some time – either alone or with someone you trust – and let it all out. But only for so long. Don't let it consume you. Don't let it eat up the rest of your life, or everything in the arena was for nothing. There's no point in surviving – in coming back here – if you don't _live_. So give yourself that time. You need it. But, the rest of the time … have a good life."

"But how can I just…" Brennan trailed off. There was no good way to end that sentence. "How can I just forget?" he decided at last.

Silas shook his head. "You can't. And I'm not telling you to. You'll never be able to forget. But you can move on." He smiled a little. "An old friend once told me … _We are all the sum of our tears. Too little, and the ground is not fertile, and nothing can grow there. Too much, the best of us is washed away. _Don't let your tears wash away what's left of you, Brennan. Find something worth living for, and grow."

Brennan turned towards the door as the train screeched to a halt. "I … I'll try."

Silas smiled. That was all anyone could do, in the end. Try. Try their hardest, and hope for the best. Silas gave Brennan an encouraging pat on the back as the door slid open. Brennan took a deep breath and stepped out into the light of District Twelve.

He was home.

* * *

"_We are all the sum of our tears. Too little, and the ground is not fertile, and nothing can grow there. Too much, the best of us is washed away."_


	44. The Death of Hope

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **This isn't quite what I planned on doing with the epilogue, but, once I started writing, I felt like I needed to go this route to tie into events in the next story. So ... here it is.

Thank you to everyone who submitted a tribute, and to everyone who didn't have a tribute involved but read, anyway. If you're reading _For a Reason_, then I'll see you on the flip side; I'm (finally) almost done with District Four. If not, it's been a fun ride, and thanks for sticking with this story.

* * *

**Epilogue  
****The Death of Hope**

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****Victor of the 25****th**** Hunger Games**

_Only for an hour._

Brennan closed his eyes. Recently, it had become the only way to keep his gaze from straying to his wrist while he waited. Waited for that hour to be over.

_Only for an hour, _Silas had said. An hour to dwell on the Games. To remember. To grieve. At first, it had been a struggle. The hour had seemed to come and go in an instant, leaving him with more words he wanted to say, more tears to cry, more memories to relive.

Now, almost three months after the Games, an hour seemed too long.

Brennan opened his eyes and, in spite of himself, glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes. It had been almost thirty minutes. He had spent the first twenty talking to his mother. Talking about memories now months old. Wounds that were no longer fresh.

Brennan shook his head. The memories were starting to fade a little. The pain was beginning to numb. Part of him no longer wanted to sit alone for another half an hour, reliving old memories. He wanted to _do_ something.

More than anything, he wanted to do something _good_.

Brennan's gaze strayed to his right hand, still tightly clenched. The Games had taught him what he _could _do, how far he _could _be pushed, what he would do when he had to. But he didn't _have _to any more. And, from now on, he wouldn't have to. What he had done in the Games – what he had become – he didn't have to do that. He didn't have to _be_ that.

The trouble was, he had spent so long thinking about what he _had_ to do. He wasn't sure what he _wanted _to do. But he knew he wanted to do _something_.

So he reached for the phone.

* * *

**Silas Grisom  
****District Twelve Mentor**

He'd never actually met Brennan's family.

Silas smiled warmly as he stepped off the train. Mr. Aldaine smiled back a little and shook his hand, and his wife quickly did the same. Whatever distrust or even distaste they might have had for Capitolities was clearly outweighed by the fact that Silas had brought their son home alive.

"Brennan wanted to come, too," his mother explained, "but he had a few last-minute details to finish up. He's been hard at work, you know, ever since…"

Silas nodded. It had been a little over three months since Brennan had called him and made his suggestion. Silas had done his best to see to it that everything Brennan requested was sent as quickly as possible, so that everything could be finished in time for the Victory Tour.

Silas followed Brennan's parents back to Victors' Village, where they found Brennan hard at work in the small makeshift workshop he'd created behind the house. The boy was seated at a bench, holding a small object in place with his right hand, painting carefully but still somewhat awkwardly with a brush in his left. "Almost done," he promised without even looking up. "I saved this one for last – never quite felt up to starting it. But now … done." He held it up for Silas to inspect.

Silas took a closer look. It was a small, wooden figure. Carefully carved, lightly painted. Silas nodded. "This one's for Blythe's family, isn't it."

Brennan nodded, setting the wooden rabbit down on the table to dry. Other objects lined the shelves and benches of the workshop – some large, some small, but each one carefully chosen for the family of a fallen tribute. Wood, metal, pottery, and even a few objects carefully folded from sheets of paper – daunting work with one hand, Silas could imagine. But, somehow, Brennan had managed it.

"Some of the victors wouldn't return my calls," Brennan admitted. "And some of them didn't know the tributes or the families very well. And some of the families are…"

He trailed off, but Silas nodded. Some of the tributes had no family. And some of the families might not appreciate a gift from the boy who had killed their son or daughter. But that hadn't stopped Brennan from calling each of the victors, gathering as much information as he could about each of the fallen tributes, and making a small memorial gift for each of them. Thirty-five gifts. Thirty-five apologies, or thirty-five messages of gratitude, for the lives that had been ended so that he could live.

Within a few hours, every gift had been carefully packed and loaded onto the train. Brennan's family came to the train station to see him off, but this time, there were no tears. This time, they knew he would return.

Once they were alone on the train, Brennan sank into a seat next to Silas. Silently, he donned a pair of gloves. Silas slipped an arm around the boy's shoulder. "Are you ready for this?"

Brennan shook his head. "Absolutely not."

* * *

**Raelyn Ayers, 10  
****District Twelve**

She didn't want a gift.

Raelyn sat curled up in a chair, watching the recap of the rest of the Victory Tour with her family. Most of the focus was on the gifts Brennan had made for the families of the fallen tributes. Little things, mostly. A bouquet of paper flowers. A wooden cat figurine. A bowl. A cup. A pair of candlestick holders for Grace's family. A small wooden badge for Elaine's.

Raelyn didn't want anything. Not from him. She just wanted her sister back.

But, soon, it was time to head for the square. District Twelve would be the last stop. So Raelyn, her parents, and her siblings dressed in their best clothes and made their way to their place in the square, next to Francis' parents and older brother.

Brennan looked tired when he took the stage. Maybe he wanted this to be over as badly as everyone else did. Tears came to Raelyn's eyes. Part of her didn't want it to be over. Because that would mean admitting that Blythe was gone. Forever. Her sister wasn't coming back.

And it was his fault.

He had killed her. Murdered her. Blythe had never stood a chance of defending herself. She'd been unarmed. Defenseless. And he'd killed her, anyway. He didn't deserve to be standing here, alive, in front of them.

But there he stood, with Silas by his side, holding two small objects, obscured from view. After a short, clearly scripted speech, Brennan took one of them in his left hand, his gloves doing little to conceal the fact that he still couldn't open his right.

She hoped he never could.

Brennan took a deep breath and approached Francis' family. "Francis was … perhaps not someone I would have called a friend, but certainly someone I grew to respect. He struggled with the decision every tribute faces at some point during the Games: weighing his own humanity against his own life, and deciding which was more important. In the end, he chose his humanity. He chose to stay and protect an ally when he could have simply run away. Something happened to tip the balance."

He handed over a small, carefully carved balance scale. Francis' brother nodded, accepted the gift, and even shook Brennan's hand. Raelyn looked away, wondering how he could be so calm. Of course, Brennan and Francis hadn't been allies. And Brennan hadn't been responsible for – or even had anything to do with – Francis' death.

Raelyn could feel her whole body trembling as Silas handed Brennan the second gift. Their gift. She could see it now – a small, wooden rabbit. What was he getting at? That, in the end, Blythe had been just like a cornered rabbit – shaking and terrified? That she had been easy prey?

Brennan couldn't even look any of them in the eyes as he began. He simply stared at the rabbit in his hands. "I know we're not supposed to say anything about what happens during the private sessions with the Gamemakers," he began hesitantly. "But, now that the Games are over, I don't think they'd mind. For our private sessions, we were asked to … instructed to kill a rabbit. I was scared, shaking, hesitant … but I did it. I did it because I wanted a good score. Because I wanted the Gamemakers to know I had what it took. And because I … I thought it would be good practice."

Finally, he looked up a little. "Blythe didn't. She thought, at the time, that she _couldln't_. But it was deeper than that. Anyone _can_ kill, when it comes down to it. She _chose_ not to. Chose not to take an innocent life simply to make herself look a little better, increase her chances a little by earning a higher score. She never wanted to kill. She never wanted any of this. I never wanted to…" He trailed off, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Raelyn looked up, still shaking. Trembling. Glaring. How could he stand there and talk about her sister like that, when he had looked her in the eyes and stabbed her, drained her life away with that terrible dagger of his? It was all she could do to keep from charging at him, maybe taking a swing or two before the Peacekeepers could stop her.

But then Iona, her youngest sister, stepped forward and took the rabbit.

It was over. Raelyn sank to the ground, tears streaming from her eyes. It was over. Blythe was dead. Her sister was gone. Gone forever.

When she looked up, Brennan was gone, too.

* * *

**Miles Jacobi, 13  
****District Twelve Tribute  
****41****st**** Annual Hunger Games**

He didn't want to fight.

Miles looked up at Brennan through tear-filled eyes, hoping that his mentor would have something comforting to say. From the look on Brennan's face, he wished he _had _something to say. Wished he could say what Miles was hoping to hear – that, yes, the rebels had a chance. That maybe they were right. Maybe if enough of them banded together and refused to fight, they could make a difference. Maybe the Games could end.

Beside him, Lyta was still shaking. "Are you sure?" she asked one last time. "Are you sure we can't just … not fight?"

Brennan swallowed hard. "Of course you _can_. Once you're in the arena tomorrow, Lyta, it's all up to you. I can't tell you what to do. All I can do is tell you what I know." He leaned forward, placing a hand on each of them. "The year of my Games, there was a boy … a boy who spoke out against the Capitol. He cursed them at the reaping, then, later, tried to kill his mentor. Do you know what they did to him?"

Miles looked away. He knew. But Brennan said it, anyway. "They cut out his tongue. Made him an Avox. Made a fool out of him during the interviews, in front of the whole audience. But that wasn't the worst of it. Because when you go up against the Capitol … it's not just about you. It's about your family. Your friends. Everyone you care about. Everyone you love.

"After he died in the Games, they executed his family. His father. His brother. His little sister. Fourteen years old – not much older than you. Dead, because her brother couldn't keep his mouth shut. Couldn't play along. Because he refused to play the Game.

"So, yes, you can refuse to fight. You can join up with the rebels. You can hope they're right, even though, in the back of your mind, you know it's just a fool's hope. You can refuse to play … but there will be consequences. Not just for you. Your brother, Lyta. Your little sisters, Miles. Your parents. Grandparents. Maybe even your close friends. So … Is it worth it?"

Miles didn't answer. He didn't have to. The answer was obvious. He shoved Brennan's crippled hand away from his shoulder. "It's not fair!"

"No. No, it's not. And I'm sorry. Truly, I am. But there's nothing I can do. Nothing you can do. Nothing but play the Game."

Lyta looked up. "There is … there's something. One of my classmates told me that, at your shop, you … you make gifts for the families of tributes who…" She swallowed hard, choking back tears. "—who don't make it back."

Brennan nodded. "Call it a hobby. It helps, sometimes. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes they simply throw it back in my face. But I always try." He squeezed her shoulder with his good hand. "Is there something special you'd like?"

"My brother and I, we … we sometimes feed the dogs that live in the alleyway by our house. Not much, just … just what we can spare. There's one … we call him Shaggy. Arty and I always wanted to take him in, but our parents won't let us. Could you … could you make a collar for him, let our parents know that I wanted Arty to have him if … if he can't have me?"

Brennan drew Lyta into a hug. "Of course. Of course I will." He held her for a moment, rocking gently back and forth, before Lyta finally disentangled herself from his arms and quietly dried her eyes. "Miles?" Brennan asked. "Is there anything…?"

Miles shook his head. He wanted to think of something. Something clever or meaningful. Something that would comfort his family. But he couldn't. He couldn't think of anything but how scared he felt. How much he wished that he could just go home.

"It's all right," Brennan assured him. "If you think of something, let me know. If not…"

He left the rest of the sentence off, but Miles could hear it, anyway. _If not, I'll come up with something. _Because there was no doubt. They could talk about 'if' all they wanted, but they all knew the truth.

Neither of them was coming home.

* * *

**Brennan Aldaine  
****District Twelve Mentor**

"At least your tributes listen to you."

Brennan sank down in a seat next to Nicodemus. "No luck with yours?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "Same as ever. Stubborn. Determined. Idealistic." He took a sip of his drink. "Doomed."

Brennan nodded. He wasn't particularly surprised. The rebels' numbers were growing, but it was well-known that the tributes from Six and Eight and the boy from Three were the core group. It was no wonder District Six's tributes wouldn't budge.

Brennan signaled for a drink. "What about their families?" He hated playing the they'll-slowly-torture-your-loved-ones-to-death-if-you-don't-go-along-with-this card, but it had the unfortunate virtue of being undeniably true.

"Family," Nicodemus sighed. "They're siblings. And believe me, I tried, but their family's in on it. They're convinced their family's willing to die for this, if need be."

Brennan shook his head. It was amazing how many people _thought_ they would be willing to die for something. When it came down to it, though, he doubted they would go so quietly. Brennan sighed. "What do we do now?"

Nicodemus shrugged. "Hope they're right."

"They're not."

Nicodemus took another drink. "I know. But hope is strange like that. _Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril we can never surrender._" He smiled a little. "Something I read in a book."

Brennan glanced over at Glenn, who sat scribbling in a corner. He didn't have to ask what book.

And it sounded good. Sounded true. It was something Grace would have said. Something Blythe would have believed. Something Elaine would have fought for. But they were gone. And he was still here.

And he no longer believed it.

* * *

"_There is a greater darkness than the one we fight. It is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way. The war we fight is not against powers or principalities. It is against chaos and despair. Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril, we can never surrender … The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain."_


End file.
